


a history of olivier in quotes.

by Abi_Faye



Category: The Chronicles
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 10:00:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abi_Faye/pseuds/Abi_Faye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tony had never been grounded, but affiliating with a vampire hunter was bound to get him into a heap load of trouble. It wouldn't be of the 'go to your room without supper' kind.</p><p>Maybe it'd be the 'go to your room and get ready to be supper' kind.</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**(the first.)**

“Mr. D’Grey, I presume?” 

“At your service.” Startling blue eyes appeared as the man ripped the shades off. Daniella was grateful for the lid of the coffee hiding the momentary choked-off breath. Was that why men remarked on her own eyes so frequently? She had to admit; it was disconcerting next to the black leather and Henley. Determined not to look away, she cocked her head as he approached with such a swagger you’d have thought he just won the Tour d’France on that bike of his. Which, she wouldn’t have put it past this man to cheat. 

“You’re late.” 

“Apologies,” he spoke in a tone that made it clear he wasn’t sorry, “I was detained by business.” 

“Really.” Daniella couldn’t help her sarcasm. “Mysterious business. That’s what you’re going with?” 

“Pardon?” His head leaned forward as if to better hear her. Honestly.

She knew who he was, she knew damn well what he’d done. It was only surprising to her in that instant that her irritation was outweighing panic. “Dangerous” wasn’t chapter one of his description; subsequent pages would detail vicious murders he orchestrated and the stark heartbreak inevitable by anyone who had the misfortune to come across this man, hiding behind a smile.  His list of crimes could not fit in her journal if even half of her father’s stories were true…and she knew Papa had often lied to her “to protect her” damn well. The list was so long, she thought the only one he seemed not guilty of was bad taste.

Sue her, Daniella worked too closely with the fashion industry in her day job to not notice. She almost sighed aloud; why was it always the handsome ones who knew how to dress that turned out to be Hannibal Lectors?

&.

This man in front of her had answered to ‘D’Grey’ however. It took only a moment before a smirk curled her own lips and she lifted her chin to ask, “Where’s your father?”

D’Grey’s smile darkens and tells her she was right.

“Mm. You don’t disappoint, Daniella.”

“Oh?” She decided not to admit she was taken aback by the idea he’d even heard of her. “What is my reputation?”

“Intuitive. Relentless. Privileged. Sex-Goddess.”

 &.

“Well factually, I am relentless. Tell your father not to send his boy next time.”

She moves to walk by him and halts at another honest laugh pricking her neck. Making a mental note to wear a sweater to combat the autumn, she speaks without turning around.

“What is it?” Her first honest question.

“That might be a little difficult.” Something in his voice turns her back around, tells her she’s missing something else. He had that delight back in his face, but she was right: there was something dark in his startling eyes. Something cold.

Disquieted, Daniella snaps. “I can make other things difficult for him.”

He held her gaze steadily with those cold eyes, and she gritted her teeth. “Why would it be difficult?”

Asking him honestly tasted like poison, but his answer spit a bullet in her clenched mouth.

“He’s dead.”

\--

“I’m sorry.” Daniella was surprised by her own words: it was true.

“Don’t be. It happens.” D’Grey jerks away from her, face screwing up in a grin with both shoulders raised as he looks over her shoulder.

Tough guy, wasn’t he? Irritated she’d let her rapid heart interfere, she folded her arms below her chest.

“How did it happen?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He laughs again, meeting her eyes again. His thumb flicks the arm of his shades open, then shut, then open, rubbing at the hinge. “Besides, aren’t you here to kill him yourself? Congratulations, you got your revenge.”

\--

“I should take it you’ve taken your father’s business over then? Your mystery of a delay?”

D’Grey lifts his chin again to keep his gaze even with hers as she steps forward, smirk ever in place. He regards her honestly though, curiosity in those bright blue eyes. And she thinks for a moment he might listen, might not have wasted her time by meeting her in his fallen father’s stead after all, before he speaks.

“Being Remington D’Grey’s son doesn’t leave a lot of career options.”

**(with Nadia)**

"You know what's happening and you do...nothing, against it." 

"I also know every day hundreds of thousands of children are starving to death in India or shooting each other in Africa and do nothing." 

Despite the grim words, a smile appears, "The world is full of injustices and hardships to fight. I don't make a habit of choosing the losing battles when there are so many I can win." 

\--

"The reason I don't care if you give them my surname? It's my father's. You'd know it too if Gustav hadn't had your uh- your Angel give you his potion, destroy your memory...temporarily anyway. My father told me someone killed my mother for her association with him when I was only a year old. He lied. She's still out there, he just had his buddy steal me so he could have an heir. They paid her handsomely though, *he shrugs a shoulder,* and I never wanted for anything, so everyone wins don't they? Apparently they didn't even have to hurt her. Much.  

**\--**

"Do I agree with their philosophy of who has the right to use magic? No, I don't--but I can't argue with the results either. I have no doubt they'll be beaten in some way, as they have time and time again, and they'll be someone else to take their place-- there's always someone to take their place, there's always someone willing or broken or delusional enough. *He shakes his head.* And there's always someone to fight them. It's how the world works. In the meantime, *he gestures to the bowls,* I too hope you aren't allergic to tomatoes."

\--

"I thought they were arrogant here. Or is it you think by saying you're sorry for things that you had no control over and people you've never met, I will be so grateful for the affection that I'll pledge to help you in this quest? Honey, I'm not Angel. I don't crave love and mourn a wife I lost a decade ago, I don't need a hug from you." 

He shakes his head, hand slipping into his pocket. "What I need is for you to harness this, this energy--," he gestures into the air at her in a circle--,"and use it for something far more productive than psych one-oh-one on a man whose first name you don't have. 

Stop. Okay? Just stop. Because I don't care what you think of me. You know what I care about? What if I tell you that the reason I wanted to meet you tonight was because I have every interest in helping already? Because I was curious in you as a person, curious if you were going to fight them. Because this 'organization' as you called it has caused terror in _my_ streets, with _my_ people, and _my_ home after they were kicked out of _yours_? You think I want a pack of wolves  turning at will running around my home unchecked? Even if the pack leader is a friend of mine? Ask me about that, about the war or what music I have and if you can listen to it. Fight for your _self_ , honey, not me. And _do not_ pretend you can possibly understand about my father, and don't presume that all I could possibly feel for the man who raised me, who gave me everything, is resentment."

\--

_So if you're not going to tell me anything of substance about you, fine! But I'm not going to ask about myself, I won't talk about myself, so either tell me your name and your favorite color or drag me down to that god-forsaken place again because you can't give me what I want. I want to go -home-, I want to know what that is! And I want to know what that feels like! I want this to stop! And it's not as you say it, impossible! I asked about you not because I wanted to manipulate you into helping, I asked because I'm curious. Call the press! I wanted to try and understand why you won't help me because I don't want to be bitter about you when you've been so kind so far! Understanding and communication- is that not the logical and respectful thing to do?! Or are we all out of that in this place?! Do I only get snarky and snippy comments tightly wrapped in a veil of deceit and ulterior motives, topped with a light sarcastic sauce? Sorry! I don't believe I know the recipe for that order, so this is what you get! Are you listening -now- hyena mouth?!_

Gustav would instantly have him comfort her, turn the breakdown to their godforsaken benefit and manipulate her into what they needed, create her "self" into their purpose, their tool. His father would have too. But oddly enough, it was the second option that attracted him and strangled him. 

The option that he genuinely pull her into a hug and tell her exactly what she wanted to hear, and follow through to the best of his ability. Be the adult to a very, very lost and afraid little girl. That's what She would have wanted. 

But then, he'd always been a contrary soul.

"Blue."

He takes a step closer to her and the table and waves his hand. A box of tissues appears beside her, in a red marble box. "And only my brother calls me anything but D'Grey anymore, so you have my name already. See..." 

He pauses, thinking how to put it, feeling a bit odd, "Well, it's what you just said." He shrugs a shoulder, even as he draws the chair out next to her, and sits down beside her. His eyes and breath are unwavering. "I don't know what it was my mother had called me, but it certainly wasn't what my Father did."

\--

"Religious?"

"Hm? Oh, something like that. That's a design of the cross that's part of a statue, Cristello de Minerva, in the church of Santa Maria sopra Minerva. Made by the master Michelangelo himself, sometime in the High Renaissance period." 

He pauses, realizing the amount of random information, none of which would make sense to her, and shrugs his shoulder with a guilty grin in place.

"It's just something I painted on there, honestly -- well, on a few things. I know the Church pretty well." And how his father had used it, though he wouldn't. Rome to him was off limits, particularly that Church facade. For, "It's where my brother and I first _met_ our nonna. The one with the sauce." 

&.

**(with harper)**

"How about that. " 

His words were dry, his mouth opening with the delight. 

"I wasn't mistaken after all. *His brother wasn't the only one he cared for (how sad that would be), but of those here, a few of whom he called friends sincerely lacking the sarcasm that haunted his tone when he said Gustav's name, Tony remained the only one he cared about. Simply, he owed his brother too much.

"It did backfire a bit," He admits with a dry little chuckle, "so she continued to look for it in you as well then? Such spirit." 

He nods, a jaunty jerk of delight to hide his...surprise. Why did this girl seem to go against all psychological sense? He says a bit lighter, "Personal experience. Yes. I suppose that's another difference between us. Roswell might not trust either of us- intelligently, I'd add- but he didn't need to beat that lesson into my head, and he does believe I share his philosophies."

His brow arches slowly, as if to indicate he did not. Words unspoken were often the only ones that mattered. 

"You made sure he'd never believe that long ago. Admirable as such strength was, I'm sure."

There were many advantages to his name, D'Grey thought honestly, but the bit he relished the most was the fact everyone assumed they knew him by it. It was great fun to confound that expectation, always...or merely use it to his benefit, as he had. Olivier would never let one chain him to a wall, would never be punching bag anymore than he'd be a puppet. Ever.

 

&.

**(with devin)**

“What did you do?” He asks, forcing more breath into his lungs. It occurs to him suddenly, was he imagining this man?

“I helped,” The man repeats with a glint in his eyes over his smile, “I wouldn’t let you die.” 

Devin was startled only that the heart machine didn’t take off again. Or maybe his heart wasn’t beating. Die. There was a word he hadn’t expected to hear. And what did he mean, initial injuries and Lynn later? The “boy” had to be Nick (oh almighty, he owed him his life? wonderful), but why should there have been something later? What was going on?

“Who are you?” He didn’t know why he asked again expecting an answer. The man hadn’t answered before, or the time before that, and had he asked three times already? The definition of insanity was doing the same thing time and time again, expecting a different result. Devin refused to be insane. Maybe this was another dream. But...no, if it was a dream, Nadia would be there with him. 

A widening smirk answers in a condescendingly polite tone, 

“A friend.” 

**&.**

"Why do you kill people?"

 **D’Grey:** *Amazed and taken aback, his face darkens and contorts with the sudden question. He’d only been about to offer her water. Eyes widening, he breathes out, but he won’t answer her, his hands clasped tightly together. He won’t look away from her.*

 **Daniella:** *Seeing his face shift and eyes glint, she narrows her gaze, but doesn’t blink. She won’t blink. She wants to see his anger. Daniella Faye is fearless in the face of his infamous temper. In fact, she loves his fury. It’s a delicate counterbalance with them: he is angry when she is all cool wit and games; when she is furious and raging he is only amused.* I mean, this gentleman’s act—is any of it real? You’ve killed—

 **D’Grey:** Yes, *snaps out at last, rolling his eyes to the ceiling and leaning back to the cushions.* Yes, Daniella, I’ve killed people. And you know what amazes me most about that question right now, is that you’re not the first to ask me it recently.

 **Daniella:** *Breathless, she sits up a little straighter and lets her hand drop from the couch.* Who else?

 **D’Grey:** *He looks at her sideways, and then shakes his head back and forth, very slowly.* I can’t.

**&.**

“I didn’t realize you cared if I died.”

And he smirks. He smirks at her sideways, lighter, and she can’t help but think she’ll fall, for she recognizes it, thinking about blurry lines between hate and love. She spins, her hand raising slowly until the pad of her finger traces the jut of bone and slight stubble at his chin before settling softly against him. Bastard. Italian bastard. Italian bastard of a ‘D’grey’, at that. 

Hands curling and uncurling at his sides as she touches him, he nods as if the moment won’t find itself burned in the back of his mind, filed away with all the memories he finds are worth hanging on to. There was a second, a distinct stretch of time where her lips were hesitant and yet still against his, where she starts to second guess herself, but not pull away completely. 

“Let’s not bring caring into this,” she says instead, simply, a hiss of heat against his lips. 

She pushes her palm against his jaw until her fingers tangle in his hair, and lets him breath something relieved into her lovely mouth, something akin to the deep breath she took before throwing herself off the back of her family boat and crashing into the navy waves. He lifts his own hand, cupping her cheek delicately, like he’s afraid for an instant to touch, like he’s afraid he’ll leave a mark or break some porcelain doll.

She relishes the thought it it. Of living in that heat of the instance of shattering, where everything beneath the fragile shell burst forth, exploded with fire all-at-once, all-consuming passion leaving in it’s wake red, red, red, marks pressed so deep in sensitive flesh it prints on her soul, an instance of such intensity it was no wonder that nothing could ever fully be recovered again. Daniella relishes the thought of being so broken. 

 He smirks at her still beneath a guarded gaze, and then hisses back, 

“Agreed.” 

The word hits her lips and then, with heat of that promise and lie, with the abrupt passion heady as it matches hers, so dark she thought if she were to paint it they’d both be tangled in ribbons of ebony, so does his mouth.

 

&.

**(the gala)**

 "D'Grey?" 

He watches him walk towards them, take Lyndsea and take out a bezoar. What a happy coincidence, he thought with his eyes narrowing. 

"You knew this was going to happen."

"Aren't you a shrewd one." He chuckles drily, but only once, one small little exhale before sobering; it was twisted humor he'd always enjoyed the most.

"As it happens--"

Lyndsea had suddenly gasped and he pulls back to fish a bottle of water out of his jacket. He hands that to Eliza, who immediately starts helping Lyndsea drink it, and then tosses the rest of his little kit to the boy.

"--I didn't, I simply always have learned to carry one since my brother's fourteenth birthday gift was a poisoned cake." He waves this off, "It was a mix-up, obviously. Still, always better to be prepared, I learned."

His gaze flicks up comfortably to hold his gaze, small smile on his lips.

"But you're right to think that way. There _are_ usually such ulterior motives."

 

&.

Suddenly realizing he's near the door, Eliza chases away the discomforting pangs in her chest by saying instead, "Just answer this then -- you walk out that door, join the fighting, which side will you fight on? For the Ministry or for the Death Eaters--who would you fire spells at?"

Calmly, "I suppose at whomever fired at me, Eliza." 

D'Grey holds her gaze unblinkingly, even as Lyndsea coughs again, reminding him, and a dry smile appears twisting his lips. 

"But see, I'm not going through that door."

And he turns left instead towards the terrace they came from, walks down the hallway leisurely, and out the back door.

 

 &. 

**D'Grey:** Uncanny. *He says it deliberately even as it sounds offhand, waiting for Harper's questioning gaze (that was really rather only a subtle change; the man was obviously well practiced in hiding his true emotions, a very useful skill). Still casual, flicking his fingers at the air,* Ah-you two don't physically resemble each other that much, but when you smirked for a second- *Olivier lifts an eyebrow, saying softer,* well, you couldn't tell those smirks apart. 

*Even with the physical deformity actually, he thinks, curious. The pointed question seems to return him to his purpose, though it hadn't left his mind.* I won't tell him, if you don't want him to know. I haven't told a soul. *Calmly,* Just as I certainly wasn't required to come here tonight, almost certainly robbed Roswell the ability to gloat, I imagine. *He lets go of his own hands, and leans forward without noticing,* What I want, is your help Harper. I'll do what I can to insure your wife and son remain safe and will return you to them -- when Gustav and Gina are dead. *It was as flatly as he'd ever spoken, though as honest as ever. Steadily holding his gaze, he says simply,* So see, you aren't in my debt for the bezoar at all. I imagine that's a relief -- I would prefer us to be partners equally. 

 **Harper:** *One man's observation over one physical resemblance between his son and him shouldn't have heartened him that much, and yet it did. He could never say so out loud, whatever their present...alliance, but he appreciated the statement all the same, as much as he did his silence. But to hear him speak so plainly, that he would have never expected. His eyebrows rose with the surprise. Partners, to take down Roswell and his little bitch. If he could trust the man up to this point, (and he had) he could trust him in this.* One condition.

 **D'Grey** : *He was going to have to get used to that, he imagined, being challenged and negotiated with by one he'd long assumed too far gone -- and, he could admit to himself, too far beneath him. His lips flicked in brief amusement. It was intelligence and resilience Olivier favored above all; Harper had already proven beyond reason his skills with both. So he had no qualm, waving his hand as he asks lightly,* Which is? *He didn't blink or look away, though the corner of his lips curled up. This was what equal meant, after all.*

 **Harper:** *It was a shallow term and condition, but he felt like he had to get it out of his chest anyway. So with an eyebrow still raised, and a smirk back on his face, he revealed.* I'm going to kill that Roswell bastard myself.

 **D'Grey:** *A smirk rose on his own lips instantly, and he fails to restrain a chuckle.* Ah, are we calling dibs? *That amused him to no end as he thinks-- perhaps he might honestly enjoy Harper's company, if the man learned to laugh more. He nods his assent-ion,* Very well. I imagine you do have the most reason to of anyone. 

*For a moment, D'Grey thought of Hans, thought of what his friend lived through, thought how thoroughly he had erased the fact from his mind that the hell he'd lived in had been caused by Roswell all along. But still, as far as conditions went--it was tame. He held his hand out, saying with his own stubborn smirk, almost teasing,* Friends, then? 

 **Harper:** *What D'Grey imagined, Harper had lived. Every second, of every day in this hell, because of Gustav. He wished there was a way to pay that back in tenfold, but hadn't yet figured out a way for that occur. Fivefold perhaps, and it had already started. He looked at the offered hand with rising amusement, made even more poignant by the choice of word. Friend. His only real friend in ten years had been a stubborn and persistent fifteen year old girl, but he could broaden the term to include Olivier for the moment. He took the hand and shook it once, firmly, after meeting his gaze again* Friends it is.

 

 

**(history & otherwise, with tony) **

 

 **Tony:** C'mon, you still can't be mad at me for crashing the party. *Adds after a moment.* And taking your bed. *Pops another grape into his mouth.*

 **Olivier:** *He heard him coming.* Three years without a word, and then three visits in a week? They told me this cologne was attractive but--I think the salesperson left a detail out.

&.

 **Olivier:** *Playful,* I think you'll have to, you're bleeding my stock dry. *Well, that he could agree with. Hans had been a ticking time bomb from the moment he emerged from those black cells. He thinks for a moment of Nadia--the fact that he hopes she was doing better surprises him, but it's a flicker and a flare of emotion he decides to hold on to. As his brother nearly frowns, Olivier's eyes narrow dangerously close to brood. There's something in his eyes. Slowly,* You really want to help?

 **Tony:** *Bleeding. Too vivid a choice of word for his liking, but he passed it off with another smirk, shrugging and then finishing off the last of the grapes before throwing the little vine over his shoulder.* I really want to make sure you don't get killed. And seeing as how I'm directly invested in your life, sitting at home and playing ignorant house-wife *puts his hands in his pockets, tilting his head* just isn't gonna cut it.

&.

 **Tony:** *He smirked at the adjective, though he quickly realized he would have to do some research of his own to find out who these people were. The name 'Gustav Roswell' didn't ring any bells- or rather, maybe that pink haired bitch had mentioned a Gustav all too fondly. Great, now he was in danger of losing his lunch.* He broke his word, that's the thing you find most repugnant about the man? *It was mostly a joke.*

 **Olivier** : *A man's word is his bond, he almost said, before he realizes he'd be quoting their father. Lips pressed together, he chuckles briefly to cover the uncomfortable thought and slides his hands back behind his back, cupping his wrist.* He broke his word to a man whom he tortured into giving up legitimately everything to help him, on the promise his family would be safe. *He arches an eyebrow.* And now his son's a werewolf and had I had not a bezoar for his wife, she'd be dead. *He looks calmly at Tony, still speaking as if they were discussing their nonna -- tone and demeanor unchanged by the abrupt mentions of violence and death.* So let's say I'm .. not fond.

 

&.

Sorrow chokes in his throat, but he looks around to his brother--looks to Tony, looks to the brother whose life he paid for in blood innocent and non, and straightens to see the disgust in his eyes.

“You weren’t supposed to be here.” He says, though what he means is that he wasn’t supposed to ever know. 

Olivier remembers, with clarity so sharp it burns, the exact pressure it takes to sever a head from a neck, the way the blood flows fast at first and then slower and slower, the way sweat and tears make everything salty and slightly acidic, the smell of shit when the bodies finally let go; it gags him and mixes with bile in the back of his throat. He keeps track of the numbers in his head, totals the lives from the past year, the ones who never cried out and those who couldn’t stop screaming.  He doesn’t know any of their names, but he remembers them, and he knows why they died.

 And he knows why Sarah died, and it stirs him back into action. 

“Don’t say anything.” Olivier snaps it, and it occurs to him he’d never heard his father’s voice in his own throat before.

 

&.

Don't say anything, that's what his brother had said to him. After walking in, after seeing that, that was all he had to say. That and that he wasn't supposed to be here. Thousands of arguments rose up and then died in his throat as he struggled for breath again. What difference would there be to say that Tony went as he pleased, that Olivier had no right to say to him, that his brother wasn't their father-- but at that moment the only thing he could see were the resemblances. As if Olivier was a vampire himself, for blood smeared at a corner of his mouth as if he had ravaged the girl with his teeth instead of the knife he held in his hand.

 

-

Olivier's wand snaps out, and in an instant the figure’s vanished, transfigured to bones dry and cracking dust on top of the drying blood. Another instant and she’s in a bag and the carpet’s clean as if he’s spent weeks scouring each drop by hand. He ties the present to Gustav, and then stalks across the room to the opening door, hands it to Maxwell. His father’s former second and now his, he smiles at the guard who he’d mistakenly called uncle as a small boy - and receives a smaller one beneath eyes haunted. Low murmurs were exchanged that later Olivier wouldn’t remember speaking; the instructions of where to go, who would be waiting for him. 

“You’ll get your wish.” He’d see to that: Gustav would die. Pain first was likely too, for Harper would do it, as the man had asked. Olivier D’Grey was more than a man of his word, see. He grants wishes. 

Everyone got the fairytales wrong but the brothers Grimm. 

 

-

After all, they were unnatural, his brother and him. Born of a vampire, born out of a being that was technically dead, with the help of magic. Their bloodlust was inherent, something that not even the few years he'd spent with his mother as a child could stomp out. Tony remembered how she looked at him sometimes, with that little adoring smile when he showed up with something that he hoped would make her proud, but behind those smiles, in her eyes, there was always a latent fear that he didn't understand until nearly a decade later. She loved him, he never doubted that, but she was also afraid of him, of the person he could become.

 

-

He closed the distance between them to send a fist to his face. 

"That's it? That's all you have to say? I asked for this? I asked to be here, I knew what I was getting into- no! You said it yourself, I wasn't supposed to be here, I wasn't supposed to know! All your talk of protecting your city, protecting your people, reconciling a man with his wife- you just want the throne back, don't you?! Nothing has changed, has it?!"

The fist aimed at him -- that, Olivier didn’t expect. It wasn’t until it collided with his jaw that he remembered his other wound, the one still bleeding -- shallow, but steady, like water prick-prick-pricking away at a dam that could only help, for all it’s stonework and balustrades, but burst. It lands hard, bruising his bone, and only then does he remember that Tony’s just as strong as he is. That he’d forgotten: spending so much time with those inherently weaker. 

They weren’t gifted immortality or cursed with the need to feed; they aged near-normally (he knew he looked older than twenty-four) and they could eat garlic, walk in the sun without magical aid, drink holy water by the gallon. They also bruised as anyone did, bled as anyone did, and could died as anyone might. It was little things that had stuck; tiny differences at first that masked the largest of all, their affinity for blood. Their muscles naturally chiseled from a few days work out, and they were faster, like they’d trained all their lives for a triathlon. That thought makes Olivier want to smile, if he wasn’t so near vomiting, because in so many ways -- wasn’t that exactly what they’d done? 

Stronger, faster and...meaner, he thinks irritably, rubbing at a sore jaw: his brother was in every way his match. 

 

-

"That's a pleasant way to put 'torture', reminding her of what she already knew," he turned away from his brother, throwing his hand in the air, unable to look at him for a few moments. He couldn't, because his brother spoke in a way which made logical sense, he'd always been good at that, and it was a trait Tony had tried to mimic after he'd shot his father and staked him to his death. He would have killed Olivier, would have turned him, and his brother still had a chance, their father didn't. He wasn't going to let their father kill his brother, so Tony had killed him first. Logic. Reason. It didn't take away the self loathing.

Stuffing both hands back on his sides and breathing hard, Olivier breaks and says quieter, "And I want him dead too."

"But it was never going to happen, if I didn’t do something, because everything I’ve done in the last week? Harper’s wife would be dead. Devin Stuart would be in a coma which likely means that he couldn’t have put a knife in Rachelle, that she’d never have been arrested, that his sister would be in a cell instead -- how many people do you think I can save before Roswell thinks, oh hey!" His shoulders lift with a little shrug, feigned ‘oh i have a novel idea’ in epic mockery, "maybe I’m not on his side!"

He stares at his brother as a statue for a moment and then shoulders and eyes and self all fall. But his voice is hard, "I had to do something--and Sarah had seen me that night, she was as suspicious as Roswell was. So I took care of it. In doing so, I also gave Roswell the traitor he’s been looking for -- which just so happens to keep Harper safe. Which reunites him with his wife, eventually. Tell me brother, have I lied to you once? And my soul -- _porca miseria_ , you’d think after all this time you’d stop harping about something already long torn apart. Unless you’ve got some kind of spell to sew it all back up, shut _up_ , okay? That assumes we even were born with one in the first place." 

And some times, Olivier was certain he wasn’t. 

He raised his gaze, angry, and disbelieving, and hurt, at his brothers words. Gritting teeth, he stepped up again, feeling poison bubble in his throat, trying to keep words insulting words at bay for his brother had just struck him in a spot he knew was weak and vulnerable. And if Olivier was so determined to be a dick, well, Tony could be just as bad. 

"You know, I can see your mouth opening and closing, but you know what I'm hearing instead? Dear old dad. He'd be just _so_ proud, Olivier! You were his protégée after all, chiseled and hammered to follow in his own footsteps, and I was the one holding you back well, here I am," He raises his arms again, eyebrows arched, "holding you back again." 

"I walked away from you already, more than once, I am not doing it again. That doesn't mean I'm going to keep my mouth shut about it, but alright, I'll play the game." 

Tony grits his teeth, "I've done it before too, you know? What was necessary, even when it killed me inside, I did it, for you and I'll do it again and keep doing it because you're right, I am here to keep you from getting killed, whatever it takes. I just won't pretend I don't hate it, I won't try and cover up my guilt under logical explanations, because what you're doing is wrong. I expect I'll have to do my own share of wrongs by the time this is all over. But I'll pray for forgiveness, for mercy on my soul, which as you said, may or may not exist," he spat that out before he continued, "but at least I have faith. You should look into it."

Rigid, Olivier's first thought is oddly of rigor mortis; that if he was just so like their father than he must be made of dead flesh and stolen blood. And oh, that must be a stake then burying in the heart (that didn’t beat), with the thought that technically there was blood on his suit, staining his chest and shirt that wasn’t his, that he’d taken. Stolen.

Their father would be proud. It was a fact, and his brother meant it as an insult. It was understandable he did -- after all, their father had intended on killing Tony. He’d only been stalled by his blood lust, sinking his fangs into Olivier’s neck -- he lifts a hand to it in memory, rubbing across his throat -- because Dad didn’t mean to kill him. What Tony saved him from wasn’t death. It was a fate worse -- and what his brother means now is that it was for naught, that he’d become him anyway. How once he might have shivered in pride of the news! 

Their father commanded respect with a snap of his fingers, had built an empire out of nothing and lived a century without being challenged. Why shouldn’t he want the same? Wasn’t that the reason he was bred? A brother wasn’t part of the initial deal -- Dad had miscalculated how long the magic he'd done lasted, or underestimated his lust for the same woman twice (Olivier wasn’t sure), and because of it Tony had nine years away from him. Nine years with their mother, a woman he’d never met. 

Until Olivier had taken that from him, until his eleven year old self had been idiotic enough to leave a letter for his father’s guards -- it was this room, in fact, that he’d been summoned to. Ordered to explain, he could have come up with any number of lies that kept Tony’s identity safe from him. But he didn’t. He wanted his Papi to fetch him (and Mami, but that part went wrong), he wanted their family to be together -- and it was his want that dragged his brother down.

Olivier didn’t understand why Tony seemed to think it was him holding them back. 

 

&.

"Tony. Did you find her? When you were gone?"

And then his motions stilled. Tony didn't have to ask who Olivier was talking about, for the pronoun had been so weighted that it could only stand to be one specific person, one specific woman. It was the same way that Olivier knew that Tony must have searched after he had left, both of times. Clearing his throat, he finished the rest of his drink and then admitted with a brief nod and a small his.

"Yeah. Once...showed up at her door. Took her a few seconds to recognize me and she let me in but ah...," He chuckled though he had no real amusement in his voice. 

"She's married, you know. Two girls, guess she's just destined to have them in pairs," shakes his head before clearing his throat and accio-ing the canter so he could fill his glass again.

"Anyway it was obvious, she built her life, she seemed happy so I left. Didn't talk very much, but she asked about you. Felt like a dick when I couldn't find anything to say: "he's good" I told her, "he's still in France"...," he exhales and shakes his head again," Such a _cazzo._ "

 

&.

Welcoming Roswell into his home, offering him tea and crumpets like his father always had done for all his English customers and comrades -- being forced to sit on this couch, smile and nod his head along to words he hated. Words that were dethroning him from half of what he owned, insulting him with lies of friendship. Olivier had been amused; the platitudes he spoke been so easily given and forgotten about. He’d not intended Roswell to walk out that door -- well, that had occurred later during the meeting, when he had realized every inch of the man made his skin crawl, and that even imperiusing him would not be enough. 

And then that little hint. The tiny mention that his brother had run afoul of an acquaintance of his and that if Roswell was his friend he could take care of it for him, and all those grand words and thoughts of killing the man on the spot gave way. His jaw had clicked, he imagined, as Roswell had praised him too, said how much like his father he looked and not realizing his folly. Oh, he resembled his Dad in that moment of course. His hands had ached to rip his throat open. Just like Dad. Taste his blood, see him turned into living art, spit on his bones and light his glasses on fire. D’Grey wonders briefly what precisely Harper intended on doing...he could offer a few tips.

Years of control had reasserted itself after a few steadying moments in which he hadn’t breathed. A shut mouth catches no flies, as Dad said. Then a cruel smirk had crossed his lips, and he’d lied. Told Roswell he hadn’t needed to work so hard, though of course he approved of how dedicated it was, that he’d been intending on merging with him for quite some time. He’d flattered, praised and twisted his own words until he could see Roswell’s wariness fade to a general distrust and it wasn’t until then he asked. If he could “just go fetch his brother from his bondage fetish,” like it was a joke, like it was so goddamn hilarious and intuitive of these English _scfamie_ s. 

Blood dribbling down his exposed front, head lolling as Tony swung on legs that no longer supported his weight, his arms had been suspended from the ceiling spread-eagled with iron manacles digging into his wrists. The sight wasn’t one Olivier would forget. All Tony could do for an hour was vomit and make his own jokes comparing himself to Jesus. Days recuperating and then the argument they always had ended up in -- the one he’d picked, the one he’d used to insult Tony into leaving again, muttering a prayer he’d be safe that way. He knew it wasn’t the same thing -- that there was a difference in the tortured captive and the coerced who made the bargain for him -- but _Marone_ , was he not going to put up with Tony doing anything as idiotic as provoking the _puttana_ to try again.

 

&.

"I didn't give her my last name."

"I didn’t think you had given her that." 

The words - casual, matter of fact, understanding, bitter - left his lips without another thought. That was unlike him. But then, Tony was certainly known for his ability to get him to misbehave in all manner of different debaucheries. He prided himself on it. 

But still, it didn’t surprise him; in fact he would be more surprised his brother had given his true last name willingly than a false one. Particularly at a bar. Olivier enjoyed the shivers of recognition, the quick intakes, the sudden obedience and lip curls -- almost more than the hisses and clenching fists beneath downcast eyes as they acquiesced to his wishes so graciously (he thinks abruptly that Daniella had neither shivered nor glared, but spoken his name plainly to call him out on both masks). Tony, on the other hand, was as likely to punch someone calling him “Mr. D’Grey,” as they used to for their father, as he was kiss them. 

 

&.

"...Marcus Ellwood has not spent more than... give or take some days two weeks in England, since 1885. I know. I’ve looked."

Didn’t really feel like getting into the whole _‘you tried to find the vampire that killed and turned our Dad a century ago?’_ argument though. He’d just turn into a hypocrite considering how irritated he still was that Tony had tried to go after Gina without so much as notice. He arches an eyebrow, adding, 

"At least, not he doesn’t in anyway like that -- killing groups of people, being forced to flee? He pops up once or twice through the years, was here in France in World War Two, and the trail goes entirely dead after the last time Dad saw him, which was in 2002."

Actually, he didn’t really feel like acknowledging he’d discussed that with Dad ever, but in that moment he hadn’t really had a choice. This was how he knew omniscience wasn’t possible: anything he knew, there was a reason he gathered it. This woman...it wasn’t possible. She could be a plant from Gustav, from Marcus himself, she could be insane -- but someone who had bested him in England and alive today, no.

But then, a shrewd little mental-voice reminds him, _he and Tony weren’t supposed to be possible either, were they?_

 

&.

That was usual of Tony too. Widening his horizons, showing him what there was outside his father’s world (it had never felt like “their” father, not when they were little). But Tony hadn’t always been bitter, Olivier thinks, eyes hooded a bit. Not as he was now, when he’d said “dear old Dad” to say it as Tony did, only to hear a visceral difference even when they said the same words. 

He never blamed, Tony for it. He couldn’t even say he “wished it wasn’t so,” his brother’s wit and dry humor was disarming at times -- but lifesaving at others. But it never escaped Olivier either that he shouldn’t have had to grow up so bitter. Not once. So even though he’d asked the question with the intent on telling him more, repeating the old history lessons -- fishing the file out of his double-encoded safe -- he heard himself say something else entirely,

"He was wrong, you know. He wasn’t wrong about a lot of things, but about you -- he was always, fucking wrong. And ..." His throat sticks, searching so a slow smile appears as he prefaces to give himself time, "and get your recorder out, because I’m only saying it once."

He waits a moment, not breathing, not looking away, not moving. Somber and serious, the smile still hasn’t moved - even as he finally finds the words.

“I’m sorry, that I didn’t tell him that." 

The gratitude wasn’t wanted -- wasn’t deserved, actually, and it wasn’t the reason he’d said it. He’d said it because he realized he somehow never had -- somehow in between all their arguments about Dad, about the business, about their lineage and religion -- somehow in between life-saving(s), he’d forgotten to point out to his brother he should have stood up for him to their dad more. That the thought he was a disappointment, worthless, a dead-weight without purpose or motivation (god, why was it he could hear Remington D’Grey’s voice so clearly, had he that many memories of hearing it or overhearing it? And how many more times would he have said it that Olivier couldn’t have overheard?) -- all of it, was fucking worse than insulting and humiliating, it was just -wrong-. He didn’t know how he’d forgotten to say it. But, he supposes with a quieter shrug, least he was saying it now. 

After another pause, he slides his hand into his back pocket, shrugging his shoulder and said simply enough, 

"Should have told him to shut the fuck up, actually."

 

&.

"Why do you even care? Hm? Because you will stop Tony, if I fail your morality test, as you’ve done every time. Go back to hating me, walk away again, because at least when you’re not here," His finger jabs into Tony’s chest, "at least then I don’t have to be reminded how badly I’ve let you down." 

"I've never hated you!"

And it was that which he had to snap first, because the mere thought of it drove him mad. How many times did he have to repeat that? He'd said it at the Gala, and he meant it at the Gala, and now again the accusation was being thrown at his face as if his word meant nothing. And against his brother's own beliefs, he guessed it did. There was nothing able to get through that thick skull of his, nothing at all, not even the likeness to their father, if anything that filled him with more purpose. Now Tony wondered why he didn't hate his brother, and in the same question, figured out the answer. 

"And I will never be able to hate you, you're my brother."

The finger poking his chest caused him to waver in place, take a half step back, his eyes softening for a brief moment before he forced them to harden again.

The immediate shout is echoed in his eyes as they ask for him, why not? Tony hated the business that was his life -- hated their father, hated how they were born, why shouldn’t he hate him too? And after all he’d done to him? He’d never have needed saving if he’d kept his mouth shut all those years ago and let him go: he wouldn’t have needed to be saved from Gina (they took him to get to him, to make him comply), wouldn’t have needed to shoot and stab (it was him his father wanted), wouldn’t have needed saving when he was fucking fourteen years old and choking -- none of it. This all began with me, Olivier thinks, when his brother provides an answer to the question he couldn’t bring himself to voice.

"Too fucking bad then, you're going to feel it. Feel guilt, feel remorse, those are the right fucking things to feel and not just bury deep inside. You're wrong, brother, I'm not going to stop but I'm not going away now and you why now? Because I had the fucking epiphany, after all these years of running away from father's shadow and the shadow of this whole fucking organization I tried to take down, I realized something."

He breathed through his nose to expand his lungs, so maybe he could stop being so out of breath. But in wanting to do that, he took away more of his breath than he meant to, and to gain it once again for he was fearful to say it out loud, but he was gonna say it anyways because hell, he was already here, he'd already made a big show about it, he wasn't going to back away now, he was Antonio D'Grey, not the legacy of his father but his own person, with his own legacy in the making.

"Olivier, you're all I got. While I was being beaten by that bitch while she was getting off, I realized the only way I was getting out of there was if you'd showed up, and you did. I've lost count of the times you've fucking saved my life, at your own expense and how do I pay that back? I leave you. Well, I came back, and I'm here now, and I'm not leaving so learn to live with your guilt in the front seat of the car as I learn to live with mine."

He breathed out again before adding in fake bemusement with a tight-lipped smirk. 

"It's good for the soul."

 

&.

Yeah, she does. *Their mother was...honestly incredible, for all that he could remember. And she still was, still beautiful, with dark brown hair let down in soft curls she didn't have time to keep fixed while she ran around making sure the house and the girls and her husband were all taken care of. There was no room for Tony or for Olivier in her life. Maybe it was better that way, last thing she or those girls needed was to be involved in anyway in any of this.* No, they were at school, I just saw pictures. Carina and Angelina, 10 and 7. She wanted me to stick around but I just...I couldn't. *he shook his head and then cleared his throat before bringing his gaze back up to his brother's.* You've never mentioned mom before.

**Olivier:** I understand. 

*He says simply, wondering if he could have stayed -- wondering if he’d even want to meet her. He was angry, even if logic told him it wasn’t her fault, because shouldn’t it have been her damn responsibility? She’d given birth to them both, but she’d only fought for one of them -- and she’d lost both too. Still, at the question, he twisted his head back to meet his brother’s gaze and nods.* 

 

She was never safe before. *He answers the unspoken question simply, in a dead-pan voice filled with too much knowledge. Rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand, he winces as he sees even for all his scrubbing and scourgifying there was blood under his nail. He had to get in a shower. Didn’t that make his point though?

Dropping his hand to his knee-cap, he flicks his gaze to the secretary desk that had been Dad’s, the one he’d cleaned out and scrubbed down one day with Lysol, only to find a hidden compartment with another gun in it...and a stack of photographs. Pressing his teeth into his bottom lip he thinks first that their mother’s photos of Carina and Angelina were likely displayed on mantlepieces and over fireplaces, but that their father apparently had some sense of nostalgia.

Standing, he crossed to the desk, rummaging past his own documents, twisting protruding rosewood as if it was a key, sliding the compartment doors locked like a chinese puzzle, and pulls out the old box. Letting it fall onto the desk, he works to unlock that too with ease nearly inhuman; his mind simply saw the pattern from the moment he’d first looked at the box. Shaking his head to clear the thought, he pulls the stack out again, and drops it for Tony to peruse. 

On top were the oldest photographs, the ones from the twenties -- his father’s sister, predominantly, captured unmoving in black and white and sepia. She was gorgeous too, hair as black as Tony’s was, with eyes that were likely blue -- though he’d never asked his father that. There were photos of both of them growing up and then her wedding photo. They’d never met her, considering she’d have been one hundred and two when he was born, but they knew her granddaughter quite well; the one they called nonna. 

The photos gained in years and subjects far past family; there were two or three landscapes of places he didn’t know, and one of a bar that he did: the first one his father owned, shortly after he was turned, with his father’s arm around someone named “Pete.” There were three girls he didn’t know, in portraits that looked like they were given to actresses resumes. Margaret, with a large flowered bonnet on the dock and B52s in the sky behind her as she waved (and chased the hat down, laughing). “Dolores” was the first in color, spinning around in a hoop skirt and toying with blonde hair while she pops bubble-gum. The last, “Ellen,” she was the shiest, wearing a long simple Aline skirt and green sweater, carrying a book and constantly begging the camera person to put it away.  Each had the name and date, but the most recent photos, those at the bottom of the stack, he imagined Tony knew better than him.* 

Mom. *Olivier says simply, fingering the edge of one of them -- there were several, all from the late nineties and then the year he was born -- and then dropping it abruptly, slipping his hand into his pocket again as if he was afraid of a scrap of parchment. Dad wouldn’t be proud of that, he thinks surly, as he flicks his gaze up to Tony again, shrugging a shoulder up at him.* Least, I think so. You tell me -- I just found it when I cleaned out his desk. 

*As much as it might have been, his words weren’t bitter, for he’d been glad of the glimpse, happy to see her captured in a smile. They finally put a face to her name. He didn’t know why his father kept the photographs -- for all the things he’d taught him, Dad never had explained why he found memories important (at least beyond business purposes), saying often the opposite. But it couldn’t have been good, he thinks bitterly now; when their father wanted something, even if he loved them, they tended to get hurt--worse than if he’d never given a fuck at all. She wasn’t safe, he’d said. 

Toying with the hilt of his knife with his hand still in his pocket, he flicks his gaze back up to his brother and adds,* I’m not Dad, Tony. She is now. So. Thought I’d ask. 

**Tony:** *Yeah, if there was anyone who was going to understand that it was his own brother. It was probable that he understood to a level that a Tony hadn't achieved yet. it wasn't the same for Olivier, he never had any time with their mother, not any that he could remember at least. And he never wanted to know anything about her, or rather, he never said anything about it. So because he didn't, Tony never pushed the subject especially because living in a house with a vampire guaranteed that no conversations would ever be private. 

The explanation surprised him, given that Tony hadn't ever thought that Olivier would be thinking that way but now it made a lot of sense. He was ashamed to have once ever thought his brother indifferent about their mother. Olivier was a master of hiding his true feelings, hell it was probably one of the few things Tony would admit he got from the family legacy, but he was his brother; he should have realized it went past that. Olivier was right, she was safe now, but only to a point. Olivier took over their father's business, he had enemies, and he was only going to make more throughout the years if he never stopped. Tony had already proved that when you wanted to hurt someone, you went after the people they cared about. Getting their mother back in their life even for a second, would put her at risk, would put her two young daughters at risk. Tony could be known to be selfish, but this was beyond him and beyond his brother.

Tony watched Olivier curious as he stood and went over to the desk. Not quite the best of memories with that desk, he had to admit to himself as he took another sip and then paused as his brother took out an old box from a hidden compartment in the desk. They were all about secrets, in this family. He picked up the stacks of picture as Olivier dropped them, and perused through them. He saw his father, even younger than Tony remembered him with his sister, for the resemblance was uncanny. He browsed and browsed until he was finally at the age he would be for the rest of his life, well, if you could call it that.*

Our father: a secret sentimentalist. Who knew? *The smirk died as quickly as it tried to appear on his face as he browsed more pictures. Places, people, strangers really but that to his father they'd obviously meant more otherwise he wouldn't have kept pictures of them in his study now would he?

And then came the women. He had to hand it to his father, he had great taste in women. But the word taste became at once too literal in Tony's mind and he wondered what exactly his father had seen in them. Did he love them, in his own way? And what happened to each one of these women? Did he leave them, after he no longer wanted to be with them, once they got too old or too boring? Tony had never talked to his father, he never wanted to talk to his father about anything at all- he spent the majority of the time he was growing up here behaving like an asshole but this was a side of Remington D'Grey that he hadn't even been comfortable admitting even to himself. Why else would he lock it away?*

Mom. *He repeated as the pictures became familiar. Their mother, years before, looking almost exactly like he remembered her save for subtle differences, especially in her eyes. What did you see in him, madre? Questions he hadn't even thought to bring up to her when he had seen her, and probably never would. He dropped the pictures back on the pile as gently as he was capable of being before raising his head again.* Right...well you asked, now you know. *He finished the rest of his glass, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing.* 

**Olivier:** Well, you know what they say about those D’Grey boys. 

*A secret sentimentalist...ha. Well, that was one way to put it, he supposed, amused. Truth was, he was curious who had engineered such a fascination with time into his father, because he wasn’t so sure the idea was faulty. Especially as Tony and his own existence proved -- he continued to think about a legacy. An odd thing for a vampire to obsess over, one who could live without the bane of it on his complexion or life’s cost. In kinder moments, Olivier had even thought that his father’s attempt to turn him -- despite it being not at all what he desired -- was born out of the fact that he didn’t want to be alone forever, that he loved him. Those moments always twist his stomach, for he doesn’t want to think about the fact that had the choice been put to him differently, had his father not also acknowledged that he was going to kill Tony -- he might even have said yes. 

He didn’t know his mother, just as Tony didn’t know their father. Olivier chose to look on the brightside; instead of the focusing on the fact that he was never good enough for their mother, and his brother too good for Dad -- he simply chose to think how badly one parent had wanted each of them, and wasn’t that enough? 

Still...he was glad at least to have been right, that he did at least know what his mother looked like and he almost wants to pick the photo up again and pocket it. What that would help though, he didn’t know; it was simply unnecessary pain and potentially dangerous to her -- for while she was certainly safe from him, she couldn’t be safe from Gina -- Carina and Angelina wouldn’t be either. So instead, he picks the photos up and replaces them in the box. He finishes the thought with a little smirk beneath scrunched up eyes as he feigns remembering,* I think “Cry Me a River” is their theme song. 


	2. So Much for Ours.

**Belle:** *With her shift at the hospital over, she headed back home, undoing her long brown hair from the careful bun she kept in for work. She dreamt of a warm bath, of soaking her feet and of indulging in a small glass of wine before Tonio returned home from school. No matter how many late nights Antonio stayed up watching new episodes of his favorite shows, or playing his video games, he never lacked the energy to drive her nearly up the wall each and every single day. And he was only one boy, singular.

 

She rubbed the back of her neck, rolling her shoulders as she exhaled, letting her eyes drift to a close as she trusted her feet to carry her up the pathway through the small gate to her front door. She was always like this on days where she helped deliver newborn babes into the world. Every time Belle laid eyes on those wrinkled, pink, and wailing babies, all she could ever think was how her babies had been born much prettier. Babies, plural.  
  
Hence, the small glass of wine that come dinner time would turn into a bigger glass of wine. Tony would then ask for a sip, he always did, and she would allow it and pretend to not see the wince as he swallowed the taste and proclaimed it was 'outstanding' because that's how he felt it should be, given his Italian and French heritage. Belle smiled again at the thought as she opened her eyes and dug for her key, slipping it into the lock only to discover it already unlocked.  
  
Her breath hitched as she reached for the wand at the bottom of her purse and then stepped inside slowly, drawing the wand up and over her head. Belle remembered a day where she had caught a burglar trying to make way with the new TV. she had bought as Tonio's birthday present and how their neighbor had been so confused when Belle had remarked that she was so relieved 'it was just a robber'. Belle wasn't afraid of men who stole a few possessions for resell, she'd made quick work of the man before throwing him out, but there were other men she did admit a fear to.  
  
Walking into the kitchen, she turned the light on, to find it just as she had left it early that morning, save for the jam and dirtied butter knife still left out on the counter no doubt by a Tony that had woken late and was trying to reach the bus. Now telling herself it must have been him who hadn't locked the door behind him (like she'd told him countless of times), she lowered her wand and set it down on the counter to cap the jar. Turning around to put it in the refrigerator gave her the shock of her life, her grip on the jar slipping and leaving it falling to the floor.*  
  
 **Remington:** *The gasp that had left her mouth was familiar, her blue eyes widened to behold him and all he could do was smirk. Well, that and ensure that the jar of Smuckers didn't reach its destination. He caught it easily, lazily, before standing straight again. He didn't speak, and she didn't either. Remington had always appreciated that about Belle. She was a woman who knew the virtue of silence, of when it was necessary to not let words break the connection. Very few understood what he meant, for indeed he was a master of words. But mastery came from knowing where and when to use them, just as importantly as the 'which'.  
  
He opened the refrigerator door for her, placing the jar where he believed it belong and closed the door once more. More silence, more glances shared. As generous as he had been in holding only her own eyes to his, now he remembered why he never could for very long. His eyes left hers and made a slow descent. A vampire's memory was vivid as was everything about their perception. Belle looked just as he remembered her: smooth, porcelain skin; wavy dark brown locks; parted peach colored lips; a voluptuous form that would leave Venus herself tremble in envy.   
  
His gaze returned to hers, unsurprised to find it renewed in its steely ice and strength, much like her heart. The surprise had faded and while her fear remained (it was palpable), Belle had never been one to let that stop her. Indeed, fear had once been a motivator. He tilted his head, let his lips fall from their smirk and then turned to walk to the little round table she had in a corner of the kitchen. The entire house fit in his dining room, the more casual one. All to hide from him. He wanted to know more.  
  
Straightening his suit, he pulled back a chair and gestured to it, waiting for her to decide to acquiesce. He could be very patient.*  
  
 **Belle:** *Remington had always been such an imposing man. It was one of the things that had first attracted her to him to begin with. Or perhaps that had been the pheromones that vampires were said to exude to lure in prey. She never understood how much of that was truth and how much was fiction, but she could never deny how people always gravitated towards Remington, herself included.  
  
It was the saddest of ironies that while her eyes bore every attention of going against him, her feet already moved towards him, sitting down at the chair he held for her. He settled her in and for a moment she was back in the mansion in France, partaking in a dinner party for those the man held most dear, or rather most valuable. He had pushed in the chair the same way, had let his hands brush her shoulders the same way, and then it was over. He sat across from her, the distance no more than two feet across and then, finally, after such deafening silence, she spoke.* How did you find me?  
  
 **Remington:** 'Hello, Remington.' *He began, raising his eyebrows slowly* 'It's been such a long time. I'm quite, insert your preferred adjective here, to see you. How have you been all these years after my betrayal?' See, *he points at her* I consider that a more polite way to begin the conversation. With an actual greeting, Belle. What are we here, muggles? *He smirks once more and then gestures to her house* I see you've been living as one. Was it all to avoid me?  
  
 **Belle:** Yes, and apparently for naught. *She spoke plainly, knew that despite his example of the pleasantry she could have exchanged with him, Remington was much more agreeable when he heard the truth.*   
  
**Remington:** Hard to believe that you, Belle Nicolette Métisse nee Armand, could live her days without her maids and rose water baths. *He examined her kitchen again and then stated lamentably* How the mighty have fallen.  
  
 **Belle:** It was the last place you would think to look. You'd never think me a fool to stay in Italy, nor so obviously disassociated. *She shrugged and swallowed on a dry throat. Explanations on a location were easy, on the reason it was not and she quickly suspected, he already knew. Why else would he be here? Her heart began to pound again, which he quickly picked up on.*  
  
 **Remington:** Ah. *He patted the shell of his ear and then pointed at her chest.* Fear. Anxiety. What exactly do you think I'm going to do to you?  
  
 **Belle:** *Now it's her turn to smirk, force herself to, because it was either this collapsing into nervous inhales.* What -don't- you want to do to me?  
  
 **Remington:** Naughty. *He replied before he tilted his head* Alas, there is one thing I can think of. *He met her gaze again and leaned in to whisper* I don't want to kill you, Belle.  
  
 **Belle:** *She sat up, more shocked than anything else, her rigid spine hitting the back of the wooden chair.* Don't you? *She whispered.*  
  
 **Remington:** Oh, heavens, no. *He shook his head and then leaned forward with a sly grin on his face.* I want you to be very much alive to experience this, Belle. Ten years ago, you stole my son from me.  
  
 **Belle:** *Her jaw hardened.* He's my son too.  
  
 **Remington:** Nooooo *he clicked his tongue and shook his head slowly* at least, no longer. Now, mon amour, I get to return the favor. I get to steal your son, from you. *He saw her want to speak and formulate words but he cut her off quickly.* Do not lie to me, Belle, don't insult me. Well, further, that is. *He smirks and now stands, moving away from the table, Belle standing to follow him.* You shall leave the country at once.  
  
 **Belle:** No. *She whispered, shaking her head desperately as she followed him out of her kitchen, to her living room.* No, Remington.  
  
 **Remington:** You will make no attempt to follow me, my son, or yours. Any attempt at communication and I swear, Belle *he turned towards her now, their chests inches from meeting each other again* and I'll forget any kind feelings of mercy I have for you.  
  
 **Belle:** Remington. *Her voice trembled and her bottom lip quivered.* Please. He's my son.  
  
 **Remington:** May I remind you darling, *he lifted a hand to move her hair behind her shoulder, exposing her delicious neck. He wondered if it still bruised so easily* that you were the one who chose to leave. I would have given you, everything. *He cupped her neck and jaw, fingers stretching to grip as much skin as he could. Remington leaned his face to hers, his eyes darkening as he hissed.* You had, everything. Power. Wealth. Standing. Influence. A son, -our- son. *His grip tightened and he inhaled her sharp exhale, though he had no need for air.* And you threw it all away. For what?  
  
 **Belle:** *Tears pearled at the corner of her eyes as she struggled to speak through the heavy grip on her jaw and his breath on her mouth, but speak she did.* You were going to turn me. Turn them eventually.  
  
 **Remington:** *He chuckles, shaking his head.* You stupid woman, you thought that after I would spend so many years to be able to have sons, that I would just let them die? That I would let their mother die? Be so tragically human?  
  
 **Belle:** I'm human.  
  
 **Remington:** You were mine. *He hissed, bringing her closer, relishing at the way the hairs on the back of her neck stood and how frenzied her heartbeat was right now.* We could have been a family.  
  
 **Belle:** I wanted my sons to be human. *She gritted out, ripping out of his grip and pushing him away, inhaling again.* I wanted Olivier and Antonio to grow together, to play together and fight together. *She wiped at her eyes and then breathed out shakily.* But you, you would have turned them...that's not living. *She shook her head.* I would have made that sacrifice for you; I would have given up my soul for you. I loved you. *It came out as a whisper, something that couldn't bear to be said in the daylight.* But I would not sacrifice my sons.  
  
 **Remington:** They were never yours. *He spoke with amusement, pursing his lips before he 'ahhs'.* You thought we were partners in all of this? Because I allowed you to influence their names? Because I would have turned you and let you raise them? *His eyebrows lift with an vicious smirk.* You were just a womb I picked out to carry -my- sons, a nice pair of birthing hips that I would have allowed to live with us.  
  
 **Belle:** *She shook her head, now with a smirk of her own upon her lips, though it was a sad one. Her eyes continued to water before she spoke, shaking her head.* No, Remington. I wasn't. I know I meant more to you. *She took a step towards him now as he watched her walk.* You courted me for months, you won my affections, and I was living with you far before we, together, decided to have children.  
  
*She looked him in the eyes.* You loved me.  
  
 **Remington:** *He stood silent, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth as he watched her and deliberated. Putting a hand in his pockets, he took out a letter and held it out to her. He didn't offer explanation because the letter would be explanation herself.*  
  
 **Belle:** *She recognized Antonio's handwriting almost immediately. Her gaze darted over the date line, the address line before it settled on his greeting. 'Dear brother,' was what it read, as the letter continued to speak of Antonio's life. He mentioned sneaking out of school to catch a concert in the park (oh, Tonio), of how he hoped Olivier wasn't too bored without him, and several other small details like that. The letter did mention her or Remington, and she quickly realized that none of them must have. She smiled, and then spoke plainly.* They know each other.  
  
 **Remington:** For five years now, give or take a few months. *When he spoke, he was surprised to hear Belle repeat the name.* Euphemie.  
  
 **Belle:** *She nodded.* Of course. *And Remington thought that she wasn't aware of it. Of course, she was aware of it. Euphemie had reached out to tell her she was letting her sons know each other. Originally, she had been against it and then she had quickly changed and had wanted to see Olivier himself, and to speak with him. Their 'nonna' as their sons called Euphemie, had reminded Belle why it wouldn't be a good idea, reminded Belle of why she'd left in the first place. In the end, she couldn't even step close to the church and had asked Euphemie to pick Tonio up and take him there herself. Because she couldn't....she couldn't.   
  
But it was in her best interest to let Remington think she had been ignorant as well.*  
  
 **Remington:** *His eyes began to narrow, sensing she was keeping something from him.* She helped you hide.  
  
 **Belle:** *Belle didn't deny it.*  
  
 **Remington:** She knew about Antonio from the beginning...*he saw something in her face that gave him the next answer* and Ryan as well? *He clapped his hands together, chuckling, and then keeping his palms pressed together, laid them against his lips in a mockery of prayer. Outstretching his hands, he remarked.* Fantastic. Nine years! Nine years, without me knowing, I really do applaud you all. *And he does. His hands come together repeatedly in a silent clap that garners a wince from Belle with each slap.* But time's up. *He let his hands fall to grab the letter from her once more, rolling it up and slipping it into his jacket.* He has poor penmanship.  
  
 **Belle:** *That makes her grit her teeth, annoyed, because her son had 'poor' nothing.* He's a -child-.  
  
 **Remington:** Olivier has excellent penmanship. Writes in cursive and print, learning three languages.  
  
 **Belle:** That you've paid a tutor to teach him, Remington. *She responds quickly, feeling her guilt return to her.* What else do you teach him?  
  
 **Remington:** *He shrugs innocently* Maths, of course.  
  
 **Belle:** *She scoffed. 'Maths', right. Belle shook her head.* Remington, please-  
  
 **Remington:** *He raises a finger to still her words and then begins with a chuckle* What's curious to me is how easily you dismiss the society that you were raised in, my darling. You had tutors yourself, learned more than languages and maths yourself, why shouldn't your child have the same?  
  
 **Belle:** I wanted better-  
  
 **Remington:** This is better? *He arched his eyebrows, looked around pointedly, with distaste.* I wouldn't house my dogs here.  
  
 **Belle:** You despise dogs.  
  
 **Remington:** Your attempts to remind me of the connection we shared and the affection I carried for you years ago are falling on deaf ears, darling. Or rather, on ears that no longer care. *He passed a hand over his mouth and then remarked.* Olivier believes I'm bringing both of you home. Not that he spoke it of course; he didn't say much of anything. *His lips twisted into a smug smirk.* After all, he hid this from me for years. It's no accident I found it.  
  
 **Belle:** *For a moment she couldn't begin to fathom how she felt knowing Remington's influence over their son, because she was still focused on how it would be to actually see him. Her breath caught in her throat, and she had to look away from Remington's piercing gaze.*  
  
 **Remington:** It's clear he cares for his younger brother and Antonio for his older brother. *He tilted his head as if he were only just considering this* It could be good for Olivier, to have his brother there. Antonio should certainly know more about his heritage. There might be some time to correct his upbringing, but you...  
  
 **Belle:** I'll go with you.  
  
 **Remington:** *He smirked, delighted.* Come again?  
  
 **Belle:** *She gritted her teeth, knowing he could hear her perfectly, and turned to face him.* I said, I'll come with you, Remington. *She swallowed.* I know I can't stop you from taking Antonio, as I couldn't stop you from taking Olivier...*her lips trembled but she was determined to be ashamedly honest* It's been torture not being with my firstborn, please...don't take my other son away from me too. *She took another step forward.* Let me come with you, Remington. We could start over. Try it again.  
  
 **Remington:** Wait, wait a second love...I think you should go back to the pleading aspect of this request. *He gestures for her to continue with his hand.* I wasn't quite done enjoying that. Because see *he smirks* I know you have no desires to start over with me, or try again. As I have no desire to do the same with you, Belle. We already know too much about each other to ever believe that could work. You want to be with your children.  
  
 **Belle:** *She unclenched her teeth to firmly reply.* Yes.  
  
 **Remington:** Even if it means watching them turn into what you consider monsters?  
  
 **Belle:** *She frowns, looking up at him again with wide eyes.* I never said monster, Remington.  
  
 **Remington:** Oh, then tell me. *He arches his eyebrows* If they wouldn't be human, what would they be?   
  
**Belle:** *She didn't answer for a long time, letting the silence fall, and right when he thought she would say nothing and opened his mouth to speak, she cut him off.* They would be mine.  
  
 **Remington:** *His lips twist as he repeats.* Yours...well dear, so much for ours. *He chuckles as he slaps his thigh, putting his hands in his pockets again.* So tell me, why would I take you with me as well when you would just seek to turn them against me?  
  
 **Belle:** Remington-  
  
 **Remington:** Because you would. *His eyebrows lift* I daresay, you might even try to kill me one day. Soon even. Oh but love *he tsks* my son would never forgive you. He loves me even far more than you ever loved him.  
  
 **Belle:** But you do not love him in return.  
  
 **Remington:** He's my son. *He responds simply, as if that answer resolved the matter.*  
  
 **Belle:** Antonio is also your son.  
  
 **Remington:** No, my dear, Antonio is -your- son. He might have my name, but you brought him up, you raised him and now I'll have to weed that weakness out of him. *He exhaled, as if it were nothing more than a trifling bother.*  
  
 **Belle:** Remington, please. I will do anything, anything you ask. *She reached for his hands, trying to pass her warmth into him as she had done so long ago and exhaled. Sometimes it was hard to remember she had ever stopped loving him.* Anything, anything at all. You want me to beg *she raised her blue eyes at him, revealing breathlessly.* I'll beg. I'll grovel, I'll do anything.  
  
 **Remington:** *He took his hands back to cup her cheeks and then smiled.* Become a vampire.  
  
 **Belle:** *Instead of passing over her warmth, his ice chilled her very soul. Heart frozen in place, she was surprised there wasn't fog in the air when she breathed out a 'what?'*  
  
 **Remington:** Turn. Right here. *he tilted her head to expose her neck again.* Right now. No second thoughts, Belle, no hesitation. It's the only way you're coming back with me, let me turn you right now.  
  
 **Belle:** Yes! *She exhaled after tears had built up and spilled the more he spoke. She was glad her face was turned away from him as she nodded.* Do it.  
  
 **Remington:** *His fangs sunk into her neck, her strangled cry came out of her like a moan as it always had. Even as her tears slip down her cheeks and land on the top of his head, she arched her back into him, pressing their chests together and cradling his head with her hands. Pulling back after feeling the slowing of her heart, he tilted her head back down to him by gripping her hair and then whispered against her lips.* You taste...*he licked his lips and pressed a chaste kiss to her own.* like poison. *He released her and then turned around, continuing to walk away.*  
  
 **Belle:** *With a hand covering her mouth as she struggled to keep in sobs, she took a few more steps forward and ripped her hand away* You'd said, you'd said you would-  
  
 **Remington:** *He reached the door and then with a hand on it, turned to look at her over his shoulder, smirk on his face.* I told you I was going to take away your son. And I am, cherie. Antonio will grow to hate his mother and anger, anger I can most definitely deal with. *He opens the door and then wonders out loud* So you'll not only have lost Olivier to me, you'll lose Antonio. You've also given me your pride, and I've taken your dignity. What will you do now, with nothing left?  
  
 **Belle:** *She shakes her head, trying one last time.* Rem, please-  
  
 **Remington:** Oh, never mind, it still seems you've got some pathetic to hold on to. *He steps back to kiss her cheek.* Ciao, amore. I want you out of the country in an hour. There's a portkey in your bedroom, oh *he raised his finger* and if you so much as try to make contact with my sons ever again, I'll kill Antonio.  
  
 **Belle:** *Her face went white* You wouldn't. You can't kill your own son-  
  
 **Remington:** *He raised his hand* Then don't give me a reason. *He smiles.* Oh, come on, cheer up. It's really, the best thing that could have happened. They'll be much better off without you. After all, what could they learn from you? How to -beg-? *His mouth turned up in distaste and then he shook his head.* Goodbye, Belle.  
  
 **Belle:** *She watched him walk out of her home and then collapsed onto the couch, her hands covering her face as she wept.*


	3. November, 2013

"I swear to you, I did not touch your Snowy action figure." Olivier was holding his hand up and uncrossing his fingers up to swear to his little brother that he didn't touch what's-his-name. "Didn't you have it locked up?"  
  
That phrase rang a bell in his head even as he speaks it, but he wasn't sure what. Well, except that Dad always said if it was locked up and still missing it hadn't been locked up in the first place; the fault lay with you. Wincing as he thinks he didn't want his brother to feel guilty, he turns back around after a sigh and holds his hands up to swear to Tony, "I'll help you look for it, I swear, only Dad's coming home soon for dinner I think?"  
  
"His name isn't Snowy, it's Jon Snow, and you should show a little more respect, he's Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," Tony nodded importantly, using the present purposefully because those spoilers in the forums couldn't be true! He would have to start reading to find out on his own.  
  
"No, not really, but it was hidden and very well." Tony rubbed at his cheeks to stop them from pinking in embarrassment. Well, if it wasn't Olivier that touched Jon, then who was it? He had already checked Drogon's dog house to make sure he hadn't used it as a chew toy.  
  
Tony's head swiveled with the information, "Oh, okay." Tony nodded, trying to act cool but everytime they ate dinner with their father, surprisingly often actually, Tony felt a little weird. The table was too long, and sometimes Tony didn't believe that what he drank around them was wine. Blegh.  
  
Tony pouted, "I don't want to wash up, I'm clean enough! See," he lifted his armpit and then pushed it towards his brother's nose, "like spring!"  
  
"Lord Commander?" Olivier asks with an eyebrow popped as his intrigue is piqued. He'd thought the snowy-- Snow, right -- one was just a bastard. When had he gone and become Lord or Commander of anything? Curious.   
  
Leave it to Tony though: he couldn't name their French emperors but every Game of Thrones character he knew. To be honest, sometimes he envies his brother's memory capacity.   
  
Straightening up as Tony swivels abruptly, like he's checking if Dad was home yet, he brushes off his brother's shoulders first and then says easily, "I think it's good news."  
  
It usually was: Dad liked eating with them to celebrate, even if his celebrating didn't look that much different than his worried or frustrated faces. Olivier could tell better than Tony could, but he'd had more practice.   
  
Sticking out his tongue and fake-gagging as the armpit was shoved towards him he points out, "Just wash your face then! Come on, I bet even the Lord Commander washes up for his Dad."   
  
Right? Maybe? Pft, Olivier had no clue.  
  
Tony didn't really want to think about what this good news would entail, and he especially didn't want to think about what would happen during bad news. He had seen 30 Days of Night. (Though, granted, the vampires there were different but still, he thought it was more accurate than Twilight.)  
  
Tony didn't know, it looked like the same face to him. Their father only had one expression...kind of, he did seem a little nicer somehow when Oli was around but that was normal. Tony didn't like the way their dad looked at Drogon though. If he didn't like dogs then why buy Tony one? No sense. Now Tony could hardly bring him in the house, that was so unfair.  
  
Tony raised his shirt up to his face and rubbed it clean, "There. Also, if he did he can't anymore because Ned is dead! God, Oli, too soon!" Tony started walking off in only half-faked sadness, but he couldn't keep the giggles contained.  
  
"Being dead didn't stop Dad," Olivier drew himself up while he said this, smug and sure of himself. He does remember something about Ned dying, at least he remembers his brother in his room sad after midnight even though apparently he'd already seen the show three years ago. With their absent mother. He'd suspect the sadness had more to do with that except suspecting required thinking about it and he didn't, he didn't want to, he was too busy chasing after his giggling brother to tug his shirt back down straight again. Now it was oily and wrinkled though yeah, his face was clean.  
  
Tutting under his breath with loving exhasperation he says, "Those books came out fourteen years ago! How could it be too soon?" Then he elbows his side and dares him, "Oh come on, I'll race you to the dining hall."  
  
Their private one, that was. They didn't eat in the one where they received guests for holidays except on special occasions and -- well, Dad didn't even let him in the other one, so Tony definitely wasn't old enough.  
  
That was a creepy sentence if you thought about it. Cheating death, that was just not done without consequences. Look at Berric Dondarrion, and Lady Stoneheart! And the other sort of undead, the wights. Tony assigned the shiver that went down his back to the fictional creature instead of anyone here in real life.  
  
"A lifetime would be too soon, Oli. You would know if you read the books." Tony nodded, even if -he- hadn't read the books either but just as good as really! Kind of. Sort of. He would start soon honestly! Once he got to the reading level which his tutor said, 'on account of insufficient data', was that of a five year old's. By his best estimate. That was just rude.  
  
"You're on! Ready, set- is that a grass stain on your Louboutins?" Tony sprinted away after pointing down, grin wide on his face. They ran practically from the other side of the manor and downstairs at a speed a bit faster than most which Tony had to admit was pretty cool.  
  
Reaching the dining room, he barged through the swivel door (he called it that because it had no lock so when someone went through it swiveled back and forth before stopping) with a triumphant, "Ha!" Tony giggled and took deep breaths before realizing he hadn't been the first one in the room after all.  
  
"Hello sir," Tony greeted their father, swallowing a lump in his throat. Remington stood with his hands behind his back, looking down at them and examining their appearance.  
  
"Is this any way for young men to behave?" Remington asked in a light tone that gave Tony the creeps.  
  
"Yes," Tony answered, "we're kids, Oli wanted to race so we did." The moment he mentioned his brother's name however, their father began to look directly at Olivier, but now a little annoyed Tony didn't stop talking.  
  
"I wasn't aware having fun wasn't allowed anymore, I'll pen it in my planner." Tony pretended to take a pen out behind his ear, wet the tip with his tongue and then write it down in his palm-planner. Remington still didn't look his way.  
  
"Che--!" Olivier was startled enough by the question he exclaims his inquiry in Italian thinking: unfair! He'd washed himself up, not his fault his brother didn't and -he- had the grass stain?  
  
Only of course there wasn't any and what actually was unfair was his brother cheating but Olivier wouldn't say that. He should have known better than to look down. Hey, one of these days he'll understand his brother (maybe, possibly, actually no, it wasn't likely).  
  
Darting after him, he reached out for the shirt he'd already fixed once before and now was at fault for messing it up, only to blink in surprise as the door swung in front of him. Somehow, before he followed his brother in, he knew Dad was going to already be there.   
  
He comes to a fervent halt just narrowly behind Tony, arms snapping behind his back and standing straighter as Dad stood up, eyes on his shoes for a half-second. Great. Shooting a look at his brother for immediately pointing out the race had been his idea, he clears his throat and pointedly steps in front of Tony, closer to his father.   
  
"It was an experiment, Dad," he ventures, still trying to fix his shirt from the hands behind his back, "mi dispacie. We were...excited, when we heard you were planning on eating with us," he looks to Tony purposefully nodding his head trying to get him to go along with him, wondering why his brother insisted on constantly getting him in trouble.   
  
"Is the deal done, sir?" Olivier asks, smoothly and brighter, eyes lighting up with his curiosity.  
  
Tony frowned as Oli started making excuses and basically lying. He nodded, but he wasn't very convincing.   
  
Remington's eyebrows rose half a centimeter at his older son's explanation, but he admired the quick thinking and how he took charge of the situation away from ill-equipped Antonio and ultimately changed the subject. Lips lifting briefly, he nodded, allowing it and then gestured for them to join them at the table.  
  
"It is, the negotiations went as expected," Remington sat at the head of the table and once his sons were seated across from each other on each side, he snapped his fingers for their dinner to be delivered. He had instructed the cook to make Olivier's favorite, as Remington no longer had much preference for human food.  
  
"So the plan for world domination is still a go," Tony remarked unamused; he didn't like talking about 'business'.   
  
Remington looked back at Antonio and noticed the boy was looking at his empty plate.  
  
"When you speak to others, Antonio, establish eye contact and keep your posture upright if you want to be taken seriously."  
  
Tony slouched further.  
  
Olivier stood a little taller in pride of his father's accepting nod, nodding his own head again with eagerness to move on. In the moment Dad turned, he wrinkled his nose at Tony's frown and crinkled his eyebrows as if to say 'hush, we didn't get in trouble, did we?', then took his seat on his father's right. Honestly, the positions made him a little uncomfortable -- he preferred being between them, or at the very least next to his brother in most things.   
  
As expected? Olivier was about to respond when Tony (per usual, honestly) diverted attention even without looking up. Should he even bother trying to explain how important this client was? Obviously not, but he has to duck his head to half hide (as if he could have hidden it from Dad anyway) a chuckle at Tony's further slouch. Typical Tonio.   
  
"I think he makes a good point though, Dad," Olivier says with a bit of caution in his tone, eyes darting between them. "W--you are closer to controlling the world, if you want to. It seems a lot of unnecessary baggage to me, but, you could."  
  
Yes, he almost said 'we', but why not? That was what he'd be doing with Dad one day, si, e vero?  
  
Thoroughly unamused by the indignant defiance Antonio displayed, Remington turned his head away from Antonio and back towards Olivier who had recovered from his giggles at his brother's antics.  
  
"I could," Remington mused, "but I have no interest in controlling the world. My business in part thrives out of conflict, external conflict of which I benefit from. The meeting with the Serbians today for example."  
  
Tony mocked Remington with silly facial expressions, stopping only when he noticed the servants coming to set first the soup in front of them. Straightening up a bit, he thanked them quietly and then raised his elbows to the table and clasped his hands together before looking at Oli hesitantly.  
  
"Do you want to say grace this time?"   
  
Used as he was to commanding their father's attention, he listens closely to the explanation as if there would be a test later. Which, considering Dad? You never knew. Plus if he didn't -- if he looked at his brother right now -- he was going to break into laughter again, he was sure. Tony was dependable that way.   
  
Leaning on the front of his elbows after taking the soup from the server with a grateful (albeit silent) nod, he says first back, "That makes sense. Did Vaclav and Novac bid themselves up with you against their interests?" Like I thought they would, was the unspoken hopeful addition, wanting to be right about it when he'd only heard about them from his father and never met them.   
  
Distracted by the quiet addition he finally looks back to Tony, smile softening as he nods and says instead, "I believe Nonna would say youngest should say it, si?"   
  
Even though he was asking his Dad, he doesn't take his eyes from Tony.  
  
Remington didn't make a move to acknowledge the servers as they brought in the first course, keep his seemingly full attention on Olivier, only seemingly because Remington was capable of splitting up his attention without losing accuracy. He could both pay attention to his eldest son and notice the mocking gestures of his younger son out of the corner of his eye.  
  
"Correct," he informed Olivier, his lips lifting in a shadow of a smile, lifting the goblet of wine to his lips and taking a sip before looking pointedly at Antonio's placing of his elbows. The boy persisted, moving closer to place the elbows further up on the table.  
  
"Go on, Antonio," Remington encouraged, an act that made Tony immediately suspicious and look from his brother to the man instead.  
  
"Your prayers are always so inspiring."   
  
Tony pursed his lips and realized he was being mocked in return! It was all he could not to drop his jaw and call him rude. Instead, Tony stood up straighter and then bowed his head.  
  
"Dear God, we thank you for this meal. And the cook, and the farmers, and ranchers and grocers that made it possible, but also you. Bless this food and drink. We are but your humble servants, except father who is no longer in your kingdom. Please watch over the good people of Serbia. And Drogon too, he seems a little sad, maybe it's all the time he's spending outside. Also, thanks to Jesus for dying for our sins, he really knew how to party, please pass that along. Amen."  
  
Beaming in pride of the small underwritten not-really-a-smile "but hey, he was being toasted" expression on his father's face, Olivier draws himself up a little further. He doesn't look at Tony this time. The mockery would be irritating when he'd been *right* after all, and made his Dad pleased on top of that. Besides, the pair of them were busy discussing elbows with their D'Grey eyebrows and he wanted his soup too badly to pay much attention. He was starving. (But apparently that was normal for growing boys, so he had to watch out, Tony might grow taller than him after all.)  
  
Eyebrows furrowing in surprise as Dad agrees Tonio should lead the prayer, he glances with a question in his eyes that's immediately answered in Dad's next sentence. Oh. Well, he wasn't wrong. As Tony proves, with words that make him sigh and giggle all behind his folded hands, even as he's endeavoring to copy his father's nonchalance -- well, except for his hiss of, "fratello," when he mentions that Dad isn't 'part of God's kingdom.' Really, though? And...who, took them to Mass every Sunday?  
  
Looking skywards as he murmurs "Forgive him" under his breath in a whisper (he might have looked at Dad too), he adds louder, "Amen." Then he digs straight into his bowl, beaming when he realized it was his favorite -- pasta vezule.   
  
"Grazie," he adds to his father after wiping down his mouth with a napkin and venturing again to Tony, "We can go training out with Drogon after dinner if you want."  
  
Well, he meant play with, but knew better than to say that in front of Dad.  
  
"Amen," Remington repeated, wondering briefly if there was anyone Antonio wouldn't be willing to mock. True, he may not be 'part of God's kingdom', but he was ruler of his own. It was always better to be a ruler on Earth than a servant of heaven. Antonio didn't understand that, the boy had no ambition, no desire for power. Olivier on the other hand, did. Perhaps it was for the best, they might have destroyed each other for it otherwise, and that wasn't a desirable scenario. If Antonio was born a sheep, he could be trained to follow another shepherd.  
  
He ate from the dish leisurely, accepting Olivier's small thanks with a nod and looked between his sons.  
  
Tony smiled, licking some soup of his chin and then nodded, "Yeah, awesome!"  
  
"Actually," Remington set the spoon against the almost empty bowl with a click, and Tony tried to work very hard not to call dibs, sure of the general gist of what his father was going to say next.  
  
"Olivier, I was hoping you could join me in the study. There's a matter I would like your opinion on." Remington raised his wine goblet and took a sip, while Tony tried not to frown. He did that a lot around their father.  
  
"You're welcome to join us, Antonio."  
  
Of course he'd be, Tony chewed on his lip before just shaking his head, now avoiding his brother's gaze, "No thanks."  
  
"Shame," Remington spoke, looking directly at Tony, making him feel nervous but also certain his father wasn't talking about him not joining them as much as him, generally.  
  
The 'actually' made all relief he felt seeing his brother accept his proposal disappear in anxiety and nerves. Dad was amazing at that; he knew how one quiet word used at the right moment could have any number of desirable effects, and how to use his posture, timing, emphasis -- everything, to describe the word as he wants it describes. Of all the talents his father has which he hopes he'll master someday, that was at the top of the list. Try as he might (and maybe it's the knowledge he can't hide anything from Dad anyways, so why try?), Olivier couldn't keep himself from giggling when Tony joked or from wanting to make his brother feel better about things either. Tony did something to him he'd only read about before Nonna had him meet her.   
  
And yet, as the words continued, Olivier couldn't help the feeling of growing hope either, certain it spread across his face and eyes as much as he knows he likes this soup.   
  
"Oh?" He asks polite as he can, eyes darting between brother and father. He made it a question because it was better than saying 'oh...', like he'd been about to, like he was guilty to disappoint his brother. Maybe they could do both. Or maybe Tony--  
  
 ...nope, Tony wasn't joining him apparently, or looking at him anymore. Pausing to sip his water and avoiding both gazes as he decides, he nods to himself. Then, expression resuming his 'I got a golden tiiiick-et' face, he says, "I would be delighted to join you in your study, Dad. What's the matter you wish to discuss?"  
  
He looks at Tony too as he says the last, but only for a second, as if he was pointing out they were alone the three of them now, so why not start now? Then maybe Tony would be interested and come too and they could go play with Drogon faster.  
  
Of course Olivier would, Tony sighed under his breath and quickly finished what remained of the soup as the servers came to take the plates away, slurping it loudly and then smacking his lips as the bowl and plate were lifted away.  
  
Remington nodded once, pleased Olivier had agreed and paid no attention to Tony's table manners, or rather lack thereof.  
  
"I've quite recently developed a problem with a business partner. I have a difficult choice ahead of me."  
  
Meaning, Tony thought, whether to kill him, replace him, or kill him and replace him. Come on, he'd seen The Sopranos.  
  
Oli straightens, surprised with the fact his father did talk about it here. He'd expected to hear that they'd 'talk about it at a better time'/'business should wait until after dinner' -- but then again, no, because wasn't business always happening? Every parlour was a conference room?  
  
Actually he was just pleased his father did talk about it even after Tony had indicated he didn't want to go to the study with him. Finishing his soup as he thought hard through the information his Dad was giving him and comparing it with what he'd been told before, he nods once and then ventures forth.  
  
"Which end? Does he owe money or supplies?"  
  
"Neither," Remington answered briefly, but not simply. No problem that he would speak aloud was simple in his mind. He knew he would have to elaborate, but he was curious to see what else Olivier would assume about the situation.  
  
"Did they not curtsy low enough last time you met?" Tony murmured under his breath, taking a sip of water and wishing it was cherry cola.  
  
It barely fazed him to be denied on the answer; Dad liked to throw wrenches in, the fewer words he had to use, the better. However much they shouldn't have, Olivier was distracted more by Tony's words, thinking that he wasn't sure his brother as off as Tony meant to be. Well, curtsying was ridiculous (although he does remember seeing someone beg on their knees), but he knew better than to think his brother was serious. So why couldn't it be metaphorical? They might not literally owe money, but that didn't mean they hadn't snubbed their family.   
  
"Actually." Olivier said, but only that, looking at his brother as if to say aloud 'actually you might not be that far off'.  
  
Cocking an eyebrow slowly as he thought about it, he asks instead, "Is this a client or an official lacking deference? Or making noise about changing the status quo?"  
  
Remington almost smiled as he overheard Antonio's murmured addendum, thinking no the offense was still greater and nobody had curtsied to him in this century. With another drink from his goblet he listened to Olivier's words, only shaking his head.  
  
Tony tried not to sing Stick to the Status Quo, he really did. He even pursed his lips together, only to end up humming it and finally just started singing it under his breath as he played with the utensils.  
  
"If you wanna be coool, follow one simple ruule, don't mess with the flow no nooooo," Tony made the fork do a pirouette until the utensils flew out of his hand and back onto the table. Tony looked up at their father but apart from the hand he was lowering, he showed no signs of even acknowledging the disruption.  
  
"A partner's betrayed my trust, or rather, he's about to," Remington said and revealed nothing else as the servers brought out the main course.  
  
"We'll discuss it in detail after dinner."  
  
Okay. Olivier has no idea at this moment what song his brother was singing (because Tony seemed to have made it his life's mission to see every movie in existence before he was seventeen), but he still found the beat catchy enough to tap his foot on the floor to it. Until the utensils crashed anyways, but how did his father keep from being distracted by that?! Olivier licks at his bottom lip, then gets another sip of his spoon (despite him knowing it's empty) -- just to keep from chewing on it as he thought. Envious of his father's ability to keep on topic, Olivier looks dutifully back to him and nods in acceptance and understanding that he's not going to ask more questions about it until then.   
  
It explained the mood his father was in though. Dad might not have much difference between 'happy' and 'angry', but Olivier could tell where no-one else could. It's a point of pride for him. At least, Dad seemed less patient with Tony's antics, and less indulgent in him wanting to go be with Drogon too, ergo, in-a-mood.   
  
But that explains it! Betrayal was the worst sin in Aligheri's Inferno; no wonder his decision was going to be difficult. So Olivier ventures with another timid, but deliberate nod, "I'm sorry to hear that, sir. That's...," he searched for the right word, knowing Dad had no use for sympathy even if he was genuine and settles on, "disappointing." Which, it was. Losing a business partner in any way was disappointing; it was worst to think you'd been wrong about them. Especially if you *trusted*, them, which Olivier was far too old now to believe his father meant genuinely. Dad didn't trust anyone.   
  
(Except him. Well, and Tony, by extension, and maybe Nonna too cause she'd probably hit him with a mopin if he didn't.)  
  
Uncomfortable with the silence he deliberately turned now to Tony to ask (after searching for a 'Dad-appropriate topic'), "Did you get the tickets for us?"  
  
"People rarely do different, Olivier." Remington didn't need to say aloud that he'd do well to remember that. Once you realized people would eventually disappoint you, you could plan for it.  
  
"Well that's pessimistic," Tony blinked, finally looking up from his plate even though he liked nothing better than to dig in to the main course presented.  
  
"People can surprise you," Tony nodded, certain.  
  
Remington's mouth curled up in a little smirk and then shook his head and repeated the same word as before but for the opposite meaning, "Rarely."  
  
Tony didn't say any more, and started to cut into the steak fiercely. His knife grating against the plate was the only sound a human could hear in the room until Olivier spoke.  
  
"Ya I haff-," Tony swallowed the bite and then started again, "Yeah, I have them! All set." Tony grinned.   
  
Understanding implicitly, Olivier had pressed his lips together, had smiled (almost, mimicking his father's expression as best he could with the lesson). Then he nodded, or was in the middle of nodding to show he understood when Tony interrupts. Usual as it is to hear from his brother (about *everything*), he was surprised to hear him contradict Dad aloud so seriously. Mocking was one thing, that was taken in jest (Oli assumes; Dad rarely seemed to take it in at all). But the serious contradiction...  
  
But hey, he thinks the repeated 'rarely' means they're both right: people can surprise you (ie, Tony's right) -- but rarely (ie, Dad's right), so he smiles and nods at his brother too.   
  
After taking another bite and swallowing (pretending as best he could the knife grinding the plate wasn't setting his teeth on edge), then beams in delight.  
  
"Si? Excellent!" It was easier to explain to Dad once they had the plan - although he doesn't usually deny him anything, so Oli doesn't see a problem. "I just bought their new album too. Not bad. I'd have preferred more...well, brass, but," he shrugs it off with a grin taking another bite.


	4. December 2022

December, 2022:  
(first month Tony's 'home'...)

  
 **Olivier:** *Moving with ease throughout, it was a little crowd for their manor, as D'Grey hosting an event, thirty people was "intimate." No one wants to piss them off. One hand swoops a champagne glass into it, the other adjusts his tie, and a smirk turns to a smile and back into a smirk as he sees his brother. He was playing nice with Pascali, a vampire whose car he'd (they'd) once stolen and after hearing one line, Oli swallows a chuckle and slips in next to his brother in an instant. Idly, he side-eyes his brother amused, saying drily,* I liked you better when you hated everyone.  
  
 **Tony:** -That's when I said 'respectfully, sir, someone plucked her petals long before I got here.' *He took a sip of the champagne with a smirk as he watched Pascali laugh at his little anecdote. Maybe one day he would tell the vampire about taking a joyride in his car. One fine day, he would. Pascali remarked on someone else calling for him and excused himself but not before Tony reminded with good humor of the poker game the vampire owed him.  
  
Smirking again as he looked sideways briefly and saw his brother, he took another sip of his drink and then replies while he continues to look forward.* Oh I still do. I just loooove that they looove me. *He clinks his glass against his brother's and then finally turns to him with a smirk* Cheers.  
 **Olivier:** *He swallows another chuckle quickly before it turns to an unattractive snort, and shakes his head as he clinks the champagne flute.* Cheers. *Yeah, that fit, Tony would. After his quick sip, he nods even as he surveys the crowd, adding playfully,* You should've studied acting. Or were you living backstage on Broadway?    
  
 **Tony:** *He licked his lips and then tilted his head as he added easily* I -have- been backstage on Broadway but I don't think 'living' is the correct verb there. *He wiggled his eyebrows and then grinned, clapping his brother on the shoulder* Besides, you study something to get better at it. I'm already a fantastic actor, I need to increase my skill set.  
  
 **Olivier:** Ahh, of course. *The sound is cut off as his shoulder's hit, and he leans back, amused.* Yeah, yeah you are. *He was. They both were...even right up to this moment, but sue him for taking the second out of their plan for the night to smirk at seeing his brother genuinely enjoying himself. Without looking sideways now, he mutters under his breath and against the lip of the glass,* 10 o'clock. *Then he shrugs his brother's hand away, smirking,* Don't worry brother, I can still think of a few things that I have to school you with.  
  
 **Tony:** *His gaze gradually makes its way around the room before landing at the instructed '10 o'clock', letting the hand fall back to his side with a little grin that he was now offering the charming woman, Tessa. One of the most cutthroat women he had ever met or heard of, but aside from the unpleasant details (which were always in the back of his mind) she was an excellent dancer. He raised his glass to her and then looked back to Olivier.*  
  
Let me guess , *he arches an eyebrow* one of them is hair styling? *He takes another sip.* Or ah, maybe, cuticle care?  
  
 **Olivier:** Naturally, some tips on the eyebrow gymnastics tricks, *he points at them,* general style, really, *his eyebrows and smirk answer his brother wry as ever,* oh and handling your drink. *Okay, maybe that was a little more pointed and sassy. Ah well. He swivels to set the champagne down on a floating tray and then spread his jacket, sliding his hands into his pockets. To most, he would appear relaxed.* It's a good turnout, really. *Again, to most he would appear to just be talking about the amount of people at the party but his brother--he'd know what he really meant.*  
  
 **Tony:** *His lips only twitch into a smirk once more as he listens to his brother describe that which he could school him in. It's only at the end that he lets out a little scoff, lest it turn into a snort or vicious laughter that would attract a bit too much attention.  
  
Taking another glass and leaving his empty one, and then smiles pleasantly at his brother's words.* Quite. Few more than expected really *he raised his eyebrows* but the more  the merrier, of course.  
 **Olivier:** *Right on queue his eyebrows peeked at Tony's laugh, and the side of his lips lift in a twisted little smile; he was just...flatly, too glad that his brother was there. Watching him immediately go for another glass, he rolls his eyes (see, he wasn't just speaking of the obvious contentious blood-reference there; Tony actually did drink at least half the time, he'd noticed that too).  
  
The response though, makes his wicked little smile turn honest for a moment as he nods,* Oh, always. And happy birthday to you. *This time he's the one who claps his brother's shoulder.* Reminds me. *He jerks his chin and eyebrows, smile still honest.* I have a present for you.  
  
 **Tony:** *While he wasn't one to forget his own birthday (as there was only a handful of people including him that knew of it and remembered it), it had been out of his mind since he'd been getting ready for this little social soirée. Smiling honestly, he nodded* Thanks, bro.  
  
*His glass stopped halfway to his lips as Olivier revealed he had a gift and then inner twelve year old in Tony couldn't help but grin.* What is it? When can I have it? *He pokes Olivier's side with his elbow* Give it, give it!  
 **Olivier:** *For one second his brother had looked at him honestly - appreciated that he'd remembered (as if he'd ever forgotten), and Oli had the same moment himself. The last two years he hadn't been there, hadn't gotten to give him a present (and he suspects his card had been as ignored as his letters had been); so, the fact that he had his brother back honestly put a smile on his face. And ... then Tony was very clearly his -little- brother again, the smile turned to a smirk and he couldn't help himself,* All right, down boy, *patting his shoulder and nudging his elbow away,* It's in my study. *Which, it was, but that was dual-encoded anyways, an excuse to get them out of the room without suspicion so they could resume their plans. Well, Tony's plan.  
  
Walking as relaxed as he had before, he adds lightly once they're alone in the study, shutting the door behind him,* What -exactly- did you say to Pepper anyways? She's been brighter than a plum half the evening.  
 **Tony:** And so begins my favorite month. *He smirks, meaning the month between he and Olivier's birthday in which they were the same age, before following him out of the room and into the study. He loosened up his tie a little the moment he was there after settling down his glass. Looking up at the question, he smirks.* Just how much I appreciated her dress, that's all.  
  
*Ah, and maybe he had described in some detail how he'd take it off and of course the affect it had on him so when she caught him looking at her throughout the night his description would be seared at the front of her mind- no big deal.* So where's my present?  
  
 **Olivier:** ..You're still going to lord over me that we're both nineteen then, are you? *He understood his brother instantly with mostly-feigned indignation and honest amusement. Every  goddamn December to January. His lips twitch up at the explanation and he nods.* Ah, just that? No doubt with a little of your embellishment, Caeser? *He chuckles to himself, even as he approached his desk, pulling his little golden key from his inner breast pocket and turning it in the upper drawer. As he dug through the neatly-organized stack of papers, he laughs once, looking up,* You looking to break into my clearly, *he holds up the key,* high-level security here, or is it just you think it's more chocolates and you're worried they're gonna melt?  
  
*Of course, if anyone but he (or his brother, their blood was the same after all) actually touched that key they'd suffer -- well. Too graphic, too close to Christmas, and on Tonio's birthday,  too unpleasant.* Cause, you're half right then. *He pulled the little bag of chocolates out first -- something he'd given him every year since he'd first come -- and tossed that to him, before locating the other small box. This, was wrapped where the Lindoor truffles weren't. Wrapping them would be pointless; Tony knew what they were, and it detracted the amount of time he was actually able to eat them so, worse than pointless actually. Wrapping paper would be debilitating.  
  
Both eyebrows pop up, as he goes to hand the box over too, pre-empting,* And yes, he went to Jareds.  
 **Tony:** Every single chance I get. I mean, really, we could be twins. *He wiggled his eyebrows and then only tilted his head in guilty admittance that yes,he might have added a little pizazz, to make it memorable. Tony was all about making memories after all as well as giving women what they wanted so when ever he could combine the pair, he did so happily.*  
  
I expect my chocolates, of course. *Everything was seldom as it appeared to be actually so no doubt 'high level security' being spoken sarcastically was actually high level security, very seriously. Aha! Chocolates, oh he had missed these. He quickly grabbed the bag and grinned, before taking the small box with a quizzical look. Chuckling at his brother's comment, he exhaled before tutting his tongue* How dare you, I'm a Tiffany's gal.  
*He unwrapped the box quickly (as quickly as he could with this damn perfect wrapping and bow) and opened it to unveil a silver cross. A softer smile appeared on his face as he took it in his fingers, and beheld the intricately carved design, traced it with his fingertip s and turned it over.* St. Cristello de Minervas. *He chuckled with the memory of meeting his brother for the first time. He had been so impeccable even at that young age. Impeccable clothing, manners, speech. Meanwhile, Tony was like a little hood rat. Now he...well, he was still like that but he was better dressed.*  
  
Man, this is great. *He set the box down before putting on the chain, looking back up at his brother.* Is the color black supposed to match my heart? *He teased for a moment.*  
  
 **Olivier:** Please, you do not have my hair. *He retorted immediately with a little smirk, pulling back and re-locking his desk drawer. That was half just so he would have something to do while his brother opened the gift. It wasn't that he was ashamed (far from, he was overly proud); but sheepish, yes, that he was. After all, it was kind of a...personal, gift.  
  
He was amazed at how much easier, everything had felt the last month when theoretically his life had become an enigmatic where-will-my-life-go-if-i-survive-this? ponderous puzzle. It just didn't seem to matter as much when he knew no matter what shook out, he'd have his brother. Yeah, see why he couldn't say this out loud?  
He looks back up when Tony murmurs the name of the church and nods absently even though he wasn't looking at him. Then he chuckles.* Yeah? Good. *He lifts his hand to brace his brother's shoulder, saying sincerely,* I'm just...really, glad, you're here, Tonio.  
  
*And he was. He waits while Tony puts it on, fidgeting with the key in his his pocket, still in good humor.* Oh, no, if the chain was going to match you heart -- well, I wouldn't make you wear something hot pink and fluffy, bro.  
  
 **Tony:** *He smiled and clapped his brother's shoulder too, squeezing once only to push him away with a laugh as he said his heart was fluffy and pink. Oh geesh. Shaking his head, and then wagging a finger, he opened the bag of chocolates and proceeded to start unwrapping one.* Real funny brother, hilarious!  
*His fingers stopped in their unwrapping of the chocolate truffle for a moment as he looked back and added honestly.* I'm glad too.  
  
*To be with his brother again, to actually be brothers and work towards something together. He popped the chocolate in his mouth (he loved to suck on it and make it melt in his mouth instead of chewing it) and then reached inside his suit jacket to pull out a bag as well and then dropped it on the table, contents clacking.* Now! *He expressed with the chocolate still in his mouth.* Time for some business.


	5. February 16th, 2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony had never been grounded, but affiliating with a vampire hunter was bound to get him into a heap load of trouble. It wouldn't be of the 'go to your room without supper' kind.
> 
> Maybe it'd be the 'go to your room and get ready to be supper' kind.

No less than seven locks adorn his front door. Claude stumbles against it with a pant; hand lifting to smack into it. Only then does he let his triump begin to set in. Only then, twenty minutes after the confrontation, with blood still on his lip does he let himself taste the small moment of victory. True, this vamp had only been a messenger, a late turn -- it was his Maker who mattered. The Sire who knew he was coming for him, now, after ten years. Slipping his hand in to his back pocket, it grazed the wallet she'd given him before fetching key ring.   
  
Adrenaline wearing off was going to give him a migraine in the morning, though. He thinks of his medicine cabinet. That (and the thought of a stiff drink) stirs him to rub his face clean and find the right key.   
  
Both thought of medicine and alcohol flies out his ear when his fingers pause on the third, tarnished lock and trail to the deadbolt. It appears secure. Only a hunter would know the trouble, the invisible line he'd drawn every morning, the one that was smudged now. Someone was inside his flat.  
  
Claude falls stiff and silent. After rolling cuff and leather up to glance at his arm, he nods to himself. Not someone. Something. The mark was twisted black and growing an inch under his sleeve. (Maybe a half inch, but he wasn't one to quibble the little details.) Determined his back snaps and rolls forward, hand freeing gun from his back pocket instead. His exhaustion vanished, lungs taut and breathing control, there's a familiar click to reassure him setting the gun. Silver bullets; it killed wolves, it slowed vamps. He'd figure out if he needed a stake or not once he got a look at him. Claude would shoot first, but not to kill if he could help it.  
  
After all, most vampires in this blasted city reported to one Remington D'Grey -- a good friend (the thought would make a lesser man queasy) of the selfsame Sire he was looking for. They needed to be questioned at the very least.  
  
Rubber grip firm in hand, he slowly undoes the chains with his left hand, then pushes the door open. It swings, creaking with the apartment building's age and rust. Claude's eyes adjust quickly; whoever it was had only one lamp on, the one he'd left on that morning to make people think he was home.   
  
Nozzle first through the door, Claude moves light on his toes (and closes it just as swiftly, eager for the soundproof ward), finger a hairsbreadth from the trigger.  Overtop the steel barrell, his eyes strip the room left to right, before he hears a loud scuffle and swivels. Gun raised, pointing square on the target, he snaps with cool command, "Don't move!" Abrupt, Claude realizes he's pointing down into his living (well to call it a room would be too generous). Down, because...they were small-  
  
"The fuck are you doing trespassing in here, kid!?" It's sharp, a gruff shout.   
  
Kid, teenager, the bloke might be thirteen if a day. A wiry youth, all angled limbs and olive skin, bewildered confusion and panic was set across him as much as Claude. All these years spent learning how to calm his heartrate was for naught now. It couldn't stop from racing over a little kid who probably broke in here on some bullshit new years dare -- school kids getting bored wasn't novel -- right, school...kid...  
  
Claude knew he should probably put the gun down. The mark on his arm tingled, reminding him why he hadn't yet.   
  
Every little kid played hide and seek when they were little. Tony was notoriously good at the game, he thought. When he had moved in with his brother and father, that huge mansion (apart from feeling lonely) had been a haven for hide and seek games. Tony doubted that even Olivier knew as many hiding places in their house as Tony did.  
  
He was also a master seeker, simply because he knew all the places. All he had to do was look for long enough. Well, it had taken him a little more than a month but he'd done it; he had found the man Tony had watched killed the paedo (Olivier swore he wasn't, but Tony knew what extent Oli was capable of to protect him) vampire. Tony had to crawl in to the grittiest and dirtiest hiding places in all of Paris to find him. It made him mad because he knew where to find all the vampires, and they were very comfortable in luxurious homes and hotels thanks to his father. How was that fair?  
  
Tony hadn't meant to break in. Honest! He had knocked on the door first and everything. But when the door went unanswered, Tony couldn't just stand there and wait outside in the hall. Father had eyes everywhere, he recalled Olivier explaining to him years ago with no small amount of smugness, and Tony couldn't chance this getting to him. Tony had never been grounded, but affiliating with a vampire hunter was bound to get him into a heap load of trouble. It wouldn't be of the 'go to your room without supper' kind.  
  
Maybe it'd be the 'go to your room and get ready to be supper' kind.  
  
So Tony undid the locks, most of them with magic. The good thing about being underage still was that some security spells didn't even realize you were there. Thankfully he didn't sprout warts, he already a new bout of acne to worry about. That's just what he needed to worry about: slowly turning into a vampire with acne all over his face.  
  
When he saw the apartment, he smiled as it brought out a case of nostalgia. It had been almost six years since he had left Roma, but suddenly the small cramped space reminded him of it. It was silly, because this place smelled of burnt ramen noodles and cigarettes and his house smelled of flowers and vanilla. There were two prominent colors in the whole scheme, black and brown. There were no pictures, no pillows on the couch, not very much to make it homey. It was a man-cave.  
  
Tony had sat in a little sitting area around the door, a little afraid to sit in plane slight of the front door and be the first thing Claude saw. Oh yes, Tony had figured out the name too! Hunters ran small circles, and they went to the same bars. After a few minutes of just sitting however, he took out his handheld game and put it in mute and started playing. He had left his cellphone with Leo, as it could be traced. And that way, if it was traced, it showed he was with Leo. Tony thought he had accounted for everything.  
  
He didn't count for a gun pointed at his face once Claude had gotten back to his apartment.  
  
"Don't shoot!" He squealed as he threw his hands in the air, showing he was unarmed, save for his Nintendo that had fallen on the floor absent any kind of area rug.  
  
Gulping down a huge lump in his throat and wishing he could do something similar for the tears welling up in his eyes, Tony kept his arms up and tried to explain himself calmly like they did in all those cop movies where the perp points a gun at the good guy. Only, well, Claude was supposed to be the good guy here, and Tony was one too. Good people didn't hurt other good people right?  
  
Well, they shouldn't anyway.  
  
"I didn't touch anything, except my feet on the floor and my butt on your couch, I swear! I'm not trying to rob you or or nothing, honest. I need your help."  
  
Help me, Obi Wan Kenobi, you're my only hope.  
  
Tony took another gulp, his eyes wide as they kept staring at the gun.  
  
"Please don't hurt me."  
  
If this was a ruse, Claude thought with suspicion written in every line of his face, it was a good one. A great one, even. That squeal of fright was followed by a Nintendo scattering and he felt for the kid for that, hoping it wasn't broken. Those bloody games were expensive. For a few, long tense moments he didn't move, he just kept staring at the wide-eyes. They were a bit wobbly now.   
  
Oh, he could hear his poor mother now. If he didn't stop 'all this revenge' he was liable to end up killing an innocent -- in this case, kid. Only he was very clearly a magical kid, in his defense! A magical kid who had only been waiting for him and who looked oddly familiar...  
  
At the repeated little plea, a hot wash of shame floods his five o clock shadows on face and neck, and Claude lifts the gun off him, pointing it at the ceiling first, other hand up with it in a gesture of surrender.  
  
"Hurt you? Only if you give me cause..." That was gruff too, but much quieter. The warning was defensive, almost. When he wasn't immediately leapt on to, Claude figured it was safe to lower the gun to his back holster again for easy access. He kept a hand on it, safety off just in case.   
  
His eyes dart over the kid again, now taking in the fine clothes that could only come from some fancy designer that Mary might have known. Probably one of the Italian or Spanish ones. He didn't think the French ones made teenager suits.   
  
The kid had pimples too; another thing making him unexpectedly sympathetic. Claude used to steal Lis's facial wash just to scrub extra hard to get his own acne gone. The thought was oddly sweet, unaccompanied by any of the usual bitter pangs.   
  
Help him, though? What in the (language, Claude, he's a teenager -- he probably knew more curse words that you do) -- *hell* could he do for him? Not stepping forward, Claude asked, "My help? What -- why would you need my help?"  
  
There was suspicion in his eyes, but also genuine bewilderment. The hand not on his gun was still up in surrender, like that undercut his threat to the boy. Even as he looked about to cry, and Claude didn't quite know what to do with it. What kind of kid would ask a vengeance-driven probable-sociopathic vampire-hunter for help?   
  
"Jus'...breathe, kid," Claude tried to be a little kinder, "and try to explain from the beginning?"  
  
Tony lowered his hands when Claude put away his gun, his hands shaking more than he liked to admit. At least he didn't piss himself, that would have been really embarrassing.   
  
He nodded, clenching his jaw right to keep it from quivering. Raising his chin, he swallowed a lump in his throat the size of Saturn and wondered wildly how in the hell did a person begin at the beginning? That was impossible! He had to go back to before the beginning, before what had happened two months ago that had opened his eyes to what he and his brother really were.  
  
He guessed he should start with his name at least, given that he knew Claude's already.  
  
"My name is Antonio Laurent D'Grey, I go by Tony, and my father is Remington D'Grey. My real father, as in, biologically my vampire father. And I didn't know what that really meant, I still don't know how we're even alive- we, my brother, Olivier and I. We're almost twins, which I mean that we're 11 months apart and look nothing alike, and we're really strong and really fast. We jumped all the way to the vaulted ceiling from my bed when I was ten, well we threw each other, so we thought 'cool!' and I always wanted to be a superhero and super strength and super speed always seemed like a superhero thing to do! I didn't think it could be something bad! I didn't know, I swear! I didn't think we were like that cause father is, cause I'm not like him, I'm not, he killed my dog! He killed my dog Drogon with his bare hands just because he danced on his tiptoes instead of going for the jugular!"  
  
Whoops, he had started already, now he just had to keep talking until he ran out of breath or was satisfied, otherwise he would just keep going.  
  
Claude was aghast from the moment he heard the boy's last name. Vampires can't procreate, all the lore agreed, seed could not sprout or take root in something dead. The dark mark on his shoulder gave a twinge at the thought, as if proving him wrong with the reminder there was -something- supernatural here.  
  
Before he could contradict the kid, Tony had burst again, the tears in those wide eyes appearing to wobble in a manner Claude found he could not look away from.  
  
"He hates me," Tony admitted, bringing a hand to his eyes and wiping them, "I know it, I can see it. And okay maybe I screw up intentionally a lot but what else am I supposed to do? Even if I don't, even if I do great, it wouldn't be anything new! My brothers already done it, probably with a hand tied behind his back blindfolded so why bother? Except I think I've failed too much, I think my dad's trying to kill me, or at least doesn't care if I die. I mean -no one- knows my birthday okay? Olivier gets the fancy parties not me, which is okay because I hate dressing up anyways, but no one knows my birthday, no one knows I even exist okay? Very few! So who else could have known my birthday and sent a poisoned birthday cake after me?! Right? It was probably another test!" He sniffled again, and continued.  
  
"Which I failed spectacularly probably, any way you look at it, because I didn't die, but I also didn't save myself, Oli did that. But but but," he put his hands over his face as he sat down again, shoulders shaking. He hadn't told anyone this before. Who could he tell? Oli already knew, he was there, and their father was joyous about it and all his friends- he just couldn't tell. But he needed Claude to believe him.  
  
"A guy came to try to kill me, good and proper, but he found my brother first, or maybe he had been going for my brother in the first place, and Oli was defending himself at first, but he was so angry, and something changed when he saw the blood, something clicked and it wasn't my brother anymore, his eyes...and he...he," Tony cried harder now, the image permanently seared into his brain.  
  
He wrenched his face away from his hands suddenly and started shaking his head at Claude, "I don't want to do that. I don't want to be like that. I don't want to be like father, I've never wanted to be like him, he's a bad man. He's always scared me, how can your own father scare you? How can he like scaring me? He's supposed to be my dad! I always wanted a dad, when I was with my mom, I would imagine he was a war hero, or a firefighter, or an ER surgeon, someone who was good and a hero and saved lives. Someone I could look up to. I mean, I had my mom, but I always wanted a Dad. Now I just want my mom back, I don't want to be in that house anymore, I don't want to be near that vampire who killed my puppy! Who hates me, I never did nothing!  
  
You have to help me! I know you can! I saw you kill that vampire," he gulped again, "he thought I was funny, he was looking for me, cuz I had run off again. He knew all the places little boys go to hide- but you killed him! And you're human! And if you can do it then I can do it, and that way I won't turn into a vampire! I can't, I can't! *Please!*"   
  
He inhaled a sharp breath and stressed again, "Please!"  
  
A suspicious and guarded man by nature, Claude was not at all sure what to do. He listened, still and yet on the balls of his feet with some anxious energy like he should be doing something more. Getting tissues, bringing him in to a hug, or throwing him a blanket, or...something. Claude's hand unclenched his gun instead. Not for the first time he thinks Lis would have known what to do. Always too sweet, his sister had been, taking every misfortune in stride. Even still, he felt safe to assume even she would have been surprised by this. A tangle of limbs, pimples, and black hair swearing to be the bastard son of his sworn enemy, begging his aid (and half demanding it) with some devil's magic...yet with warm blue eyes trusting, endearing and pleading too honestly. Claude was captivated. The tale was long (bloody, -two- sons then, there were?) but short, for all the information breaking like short, chopped waves over a wall.   
  
There was only one vampire he could mean who knew where little boys hid, the one from a month ago. It still makes him flinch. A kid saw that? He'd blasted out both kneecaps before getting close enough to stake the bastard. There had been blood and bits of bone everywhich way. Struck with the guilty thought he was watched, he spoke.  
  
"Easy," Claude hears himself say with the second gasp of 'please', bewildered as he realizes how close the kid had gotten. Eyes wide as Tony's now as if an unpleasant mirror, Claude ushers him backwards to the couch unsuredly.   
  
"Sit down," he mutters, throat clenched with horror. If the kid was telling the truth -- and he didn't see how, except that the tears were so earnest Claude couldn't see faking them -- then Tony's life so far had been one hell after another. Poisoned birthday cake? Superhero speed and strength?   
  
"I'll, I'll get you some water," it's awkward, "just stay...stay there."   
  
Before Claude left the room though, never giving Tony his back, he stalls with the handheld device near his toe. Then bends, picks it up and inspects to insure it isn't busted. Leaving it a few feet in front of the kid without a word, as near as he dared, whatever look of shock and bewilderment was on his face was gone as he entered the hall to his small kitchen on the end. His hand was on his 9 millimeter once more, face stone. A thought had occurred to him. Perhaps Tony was a decoy--a frightened boy grabbed and threatened to feed him the tale while Remington lay in wait to avenge his fallen friend. That would explain the tears being real, even if his story was something only a kid could have made up.   
  
Tony could only nod, wiping at his eyes and nose with his sleeves. He grabbed his Nintendo once Claude offered it to him, decidedly not paying attention to the fact that the man was still wary. Tony didn't blame him. The story was as far fetched as saying Justin Timberlake was his mentor and Lupita Nyong'o cooked him hamburgers and pizza and they played video games and watched Game of Thrones together. Still, the latter wasn't his life, the long and garbled and tearful explanation was. At least his Nintendo wasn't broken; that crack was already there.  
  
His place took only two minutes to sweep from bedroom dressers to hallway linen slash laundry closet. Claude even checked his shower, and under his bed on a whim. These bastards did amuse themselves with the tales of monsters under the bed, after all. The quiet but for the radiator hum, something he usually savored in this dense an area of the city, was unnerving Claude. There seemed to be no one else here. Stomach unclenching as he finally put the gun down and slips back into the kitchen, he stands at the sink and looks backwards to the caddy corner open doorway. Through it he could just make out the top of Tony's black head, jaunting as the boy shivered on the couch.   
  
No one else here, he thinks puzzled. Maybe he was a plant. Maybe he was meant to gain Claude's trust and then take him somewhere he could be ambushed. It's not like Claude put Remington above murdering a child's dog, but his son's? And how could he have sons? Oh, Claude had heard the rumors and whispers -- even glimpsed the tall boy with his father's likeness at a charity event two months ago. Yet he'd thought only the kid -- this "Oli" Tony mentioned -- been adopted, at best some son of a son of a son Remington only just learned he'd had in his own time period. A flesh and blood, heart pumping heir? It wasn't possible.   
  
One part of the story rang absolutely true, though, Claude thinks with an ache in his heart as he fills a glass and at last moment thinks to put ice in it. Claude had never heard mention of an Antonio D'Grey. Strange the rumor mill would miss such a detail. Unless it truly was as Tony sobbed, that Remington hated and hid him. Not natural father figures, vampires. Yeah, he thinks with a rueful smile as he snaps some paper towels off so the kid could wipe his face off, no more than hunters were.   
  
(But thinking about that was nearly as bad as thinking about Lis, and he needs to keep his head just now).   
  
Clearing his throat to announce himself, Claude came back in with the towels and ice water, then juts them out an awkward length away. When he realized he was too far, he floods with abash and reminds himself that the kid saw him shoot someone down. Surely he could sit near him and look him in the eye. So he does that, lifting the glass in one hand and putting towels and box of tissues on the table in front of him.   
  
"I still don't...understand," Claude warns him, softly, face crumpled up as he adds, "but I won't hurt you. You have my word on that, Tony."   
  
Claude meant it. Gods knew it looked like the kid has suffered enough.   
  
"Does anyone know you're here?" He asks, as there was far too many questions from that story to focus right away.   
  
Tony took the glass of water and sipped from it, grateful that it was cold because he couldn't drink room temperature water, it just tasted bad to him. Then he put the glass down again as he reached for tissues and blew his nose in them.   
  
Grateful that Claude wouldn't hurt him, especially as Tony knew first hand that he could do that easily. Biting on his lower lip, Tony reached for the water again and took a lengthier gulp, deciding to keep the glass in his hands instead for something to do.  
  
"No," Tony shook his head, "I haven't told anyone that I saw you, or my plan. It's been a bitch trying to find you, but I told my friend Leo to cover for me. He has my phone, so I won't be tracked here. The Nintendo is old, before wifi came with it, so I can't be tracked by it either. I came by myself. I'm very good at not being found." Tony nodded, sure of that at least. He wasn't followed, he never was.  
  
"I can explain again if you want me to," he suggested, "a little more coherently this time."  
  
Claude nods slowly, the expression on his face not out of place if Tony was explaining how rocket fuel was made and used, his eyes were still wide. Mouth half hanging open, he grunts something noncommital and looks away, faintly embarrassed and heartsick for the kid as he blew his nose. Quieter now, he offers first, "At least I don't have to move, then."  
  
Course he said it thinking he might anyway.   
Yeah, Claude go ahead, make jokes. Tony's need was just oh-so-funny. It was lucky, he thinks, it was dark or else the kid was going to see him blush. That would probably do a fair job of smashing the image of professional hunting guru. And on the off chance this was some trick from Remington, he didn't want to smash that just yet.   
  
Tony looked a little abashed. He didn't want to make Claude leave his home because of him. Even if it wasn't exactly that homey, but it did look like a place Dean and Sam would stay at if they weren't on the road all the time. Then again, if their home had been broken into they would have moved and gotten better demon traps.  
  
"Ye'h," Claude adds with a half smile, earnest himself, "ye'h that would probably be good. That...that was a hell of a lot information there, kid. You...have a brother? And your father is..."  
  
Claude trailed off, trying to parse the info dump for the kernals that mattered while giving him time to process the kid's request. Those facts were most prominent.  
  
Tony blinked slowly at him. He knew he would have to repeat some information but that was the most basic. Maybe Claude wasn't as quick and smart as Tony thought he was.  
  
"Older brother, Olivier," he said slowly and enunciating, "and my father is Remington D'Grey. You know, the mobster? Vampire? Public enemy number one? Running Paris since the 1900s after a brief failed stint in New York?" He frowned briefly and then crossed his arms.  
  
"Yeah, I know who he is, as you well know," Claude says quickly, snorting. Yes, he was speaking like a D'Grey might now, demanding even as he asked. Maybe it wasn't so far-fetched.   
  
"Look, I'm being serious here. This isn't a game or prank to me, so if you're going to condescend to me and send me off with a pat on the head, do it now."  
  
There was a wobble in Tony's face again that alerts Claude to the fact that for all his proud bravado with the statement, Tony didn't want to go home. Maybe he should call the kid's bluff then.   
  
"Maybe you should go home then," Claude said briefly, thinking it would be a vile thing to do that went against everything he purports to stand for but saying aloud, "I'm not being condescending, Tony, I'm simply trying to understand. I don't need lip, I need answers. You mean to ask me to help you kill your father?"   
  
His shoulders sunk back again, all his previous bravery gone. If he had to go back home, without any hope for the coming months...he didn't know what he was going to do. Tony sunk back in to the couch and took another sip of the water.  
  
"Sorry," he spoke quietly and quickly, hating having to apologize but knowing that Claude had a point, he tapped his fingers on the glass only to jerk his head up to look at Claude again.  
  
"No!" He answered quickly, affronted, "He might be evil, but he's still my father. I don't want him dead, I don't want anyone dead, that's the point." He breathed, rubbing his lips suddenly as if suddenly worried he might grow fangs.   
  
Claude pursed his lips as a shot of belief, pure and simple and straight-laced, sliced through his heart. And in that instant, watching Tony tremble and examine his gums like trying to forcibly keep fangs back, red-eyed with vulnerability and hot with need, Claude knew it was no use. Too late. He was sunk. No kid deserved to have to live with Remington D'Grey. What a miserable inheritance that was.   
  
"You know how to fight vampires. I'm half a vampire. I want you to...train me. And help teach me how to...keep myself from hurting anybody. I don't want my father dead- and I won't help you kill him, so forget it." Tony didn't care if his father deserved it, he wasn't going to do it.  
  
If Claude hadn't believed moments ago already, the staunch refusal to kill his father would have made him now. Nod as deliberate as it was slow again, he pushes his tongue behind his teeth. Then he rubs over his own lip. There was such pain in the kid's voice as he asserted being half-vampire.   
  
"Forgotten," Claude said, like it was easy. This he accompanied with a hand wave. It was a noble goal, asking someone to help teach you in control, but Claude was bewildered as to what any of that meant. Super strong and super fast, oui, he heard. But Tony wandered off, breath expedient as if his lungs were rejecting it, when he got near explaining the parts of this 'half vampire' business he actually wanted help with.  
  
Quietly, as he was aware already the memory was what had brought the onslaught of tears the first time, Claude nudged, "But your older brother, he hurt someone?"  
  
He gulped suddenly, his eyes seeming to fill with tears immediately just thinking about it, his breathing heavy. Tony finished the rest of his water and then put the cup on the table in front of him. There were several water rings on the wood already so he didn't bother worrying about it when Claude certainly didn't.  
  
"Yeah," he nodded softly, afraid of getting his brother in trouble. After all, he had done so saving him! He had just saved him...a little bit too thoroughly. Tony didn't know how to feel about the fact his brother had killed for him. And worried even more over the fact it might not have entirely been for him either.  
  
"But the guy, he came to kill me. Or us. With a gun, and he would have killed us. Olivier was only protecting us! He didn't...I don't think he meant to kill him." He finished quieter than ever before.  
  
"But if you tell anybody I'll, I'll," Tony struggled and then spat out, "I'll say you lied and thought everything up! It's not fair, Oli wasn't himself, he was...he was something else! And I don't want to be like that ever, but he was just protecting me! That's all!"   
  
Claude's head was spinning, but the fact Tony was welling up again filled him with a deep sense of shame and sympathy. He couldn't blame him. The nine contradictions (or so, whatever) in his admittance paired with defense was enough to make a grown man lose his mind. Talk about being torn. And Tony, for all the bravado, was clearly just a kid.   
  
So he said, even though it went against what he'd always felt (but was true), "I wasn't accusing him, Tony. Self defense is self defense...and you know I didn't act so strictly speaking a month ago."  
  
This time his flinch was supressed entirely. Instead, he just wanted to reassure him he understood at least a little...especially the urge to protect a sibling. Exhaling, he shifts on the sofa and gets more into it, not wanting to be on the edge anymore. Tony wasn't any kind of imminent threat. He tries to give him a smile, even if he's sure it comes out twisted.   
  
Tony nodded, scratching the back of his neck as he considered that. It was true that Claude's actions weren't self defense at all, but...well...better that then whatever would have happened to Tony had he gotten found right? Was that so wrong? He didn't know what to think anymore.   
  
"I'm trying to know what it is I'll be training you to resist, a'ight?" Claude finally gets out, "You say he wasn't himself...didn't mean to kill him, but he meant to protect you."   
  
Claude looks at him weightily, even before he says, "I must be out of my mind." Didn't everyone tell him that though? Considering things, what was he supposed to do? Throw the kid out and leave him to the mercy of Remington until he met him one day, full fledged vampire and monster he had to kill? How was he supposed to get the image of him crying out of his head when he did that, tell him that!   
  
"Welcome to the club," Tony replied, a smirk finally apparent in his features, bitter as it was, "we have tshirts and on Wednesdays we wear pink." Tony sniffed again, and grabbed another tissue to blow more boogers out.  
  
He exhaled and just spat it out, "My brother drew blood from the man, and when he saw the blood his whole face changed. His eyes went black and red, the veins around it popped, and he...he lunged. And it wasn't about killing him anymore, it was about...eating him. He..." Tony trailed off as he looked on, beyond the current room, transported to the spot where it happened. Tony on the floor, half behind a couch, unable to look away.  
  
"Olivier destroyed him. And he looked at me, and his mouth was covered in blood and it was like he didn't know how it happened. He just snapped and...did whatever it took to," he gulped, "feed."  
  
If Tony had been affronted at the notion of harming the father he thought wanted to kill him, Claude could only imagine his response of offense-taken at an attack on the elder brother who protected him so terribly. So Claude restrains from mentioning that he didn't think he'd like Olivier very much, to say the least. It put a queer sort of unease in his stomach at the unhealthiness of this entire situation. Maybe Tony, as he tearfully pleads and petulantly demands, could learn not to hurt someone. Yet Olivier had already. It starts in defense, Claude knew only too well.   
  
Then again, it couldn't have been easy growing up with Remington D'Grey as your Dad. Better no father than that, Claude thinks with an odd pang striking at his chest. It was clear to him though, Tony loved his brother, and was now afraid both of him and for him. Claude wonders how much this 'request' had to do with 'saving' his brother. That would end badly, if circumstaces did not change drastically. No one could change that didn't want to.  
  
Tony wants to, though.   
  
Claude lifts his hand awkwardly holds it up, then puts it on the kid's shoulder. His eyes were fixed on some terrible sight far outside the room they sat in. Squeezing in reassurance once, he offers, "Hey, it's gon' be all right." Well, that was a lie. Claude hates lying to good people. So he amends, "What I mean is- you're...you're doing the right thing, wanting to learn to control whatever this...hybrid state has left you and your brother. I'm afraid I can't help you with the mystery of your birth..."  
  
He trails off looking him in the eye, then squeezes his shoulder reassuringly again.  
  
"But I will help you learn self-defense, to slow down your heart, to breathe, to fight. I can do that. However," Claude hesitates, unsure. He has no wish to frighten the boy further but neither would he lie to him, "If you truly wish to pursue this course...you should know, Tony, it won't be easy. You're going to be sore, tired, covered in bruises and sores places you didn't know existed. You'll have to eat and drink a strict schedule, do what I say without question, be exhausted all hours of the time. And there's no guarantee you'll succeed. I can't promise I could change your nature.  Only...only that in my experience, you can change it yourself. It's the only thing that works."  
  
Oivey, look at that, already teaching and he hasn't even said yes.   
  
"Are you -sure-?"   
  
The reassuring clasp of his shoulder brought Tony back to reality. It was a gesture he could tell wasn't too natural, but it was well meant. Tony gave a tight lipped smile back, nodding as he felt a little better. Not a whole lot, but it helped even just to have someone listen and take him seriously and not immediately judge him as weak. He knew he couldn't share with anyone on Remington's payroll, because they wouldn't understand why he was so frightened, and unfortunately the majority of people that he knew reported back to his father.  
  
He also appreciated not being lied to, and the promise of everything turning out to be alright wasn't one anyone could keep, so Tony liked that Claude understood it.  
  
Tony could hardly believe that Claude was agreeing to help him! He stared on with wider eyes because he expected more groveling from his part, and more interrogation from Claude's part, but Tony just swallowed and nodded enthusiastically. He could handle soreness and exhaustion. If it meant Tony had an actual chance of dealing with this, he could even do the diet without cheating (too much). He could do it!   
  
"Was Luke Skywalker sure when he went back to Tatooine to save Han Solo from Jabba?" Yes, the answer was yes. Sure against all odds, and sure against Han Solo's continuous snark about dying.  
  
Claude doesn't both restraining his smirk. It was beginning to be obvious Tony watched a lot of movies. What else would have him approaching him like it was a great idea? Who sees someone kill and thinks that would be a great role model to have? (Well, probably a vampire's son.) Exhaling, Claude leans back as he raised both hands to rub over the back of his neck, scrub through his hair and rub over scruff on the shadow of his chin. Then he shuts his eyes. When he opens them, the hope -- vibrant and shiny -- in Tony's eyes struck him again. Somewhere between his neck and stomach, he felt a hopeless clench Claude might name both regret and want.   
  
God, the kid looked like a bobblehead. Apparently a Jedi one.   
  
"Not Yoda in this scenario, am I?" Claude tried as a joke, hoping his nervous laughter might quell the feeling. Then he gets up again, thinking he needed a drink. (Yeah, he was really going to be great at this role model thing). As he walks to his liquor cabinet (the mahogany table was half stuffed with books more than liquor, to his great personal shame), he continues asking.   
  
"Don't you..." It struggles through his throat, "Don't you want to know more about...me? Before you ask this? I mean--how did you even get my name?"  
  
He said it was a bitch to find him, after all.   
  
Tony looked up to Claude with a grin, happy that the man got his reference and that he made one of his own. Not very many people seemed to get them, and if they did they weren't exactly keen to discuss movies as they were to tell him to shut up about them.  
  
"I was thinking more Obi Wan," Tony admitted with a little nod, remembering his thought process when he first got here.  
  
At the question, Tony shrugged and then explained another thought process, "I just asked myself if I were going around killing vampires in Paris, where would I go?" The answer was dive bars. Vampires in Paris were all stuck up and fancy and wouldn't set foot in a sub-par bar.  
  
"A place to drink no vampire would go near, owned by someone that doesn't own my father money," Tony nodded and then he smirked.  
  
Impressed by the logic as he was irritated to think he might be so predictable, Claude nods even though he wasn't looking at Tony. Searching through the books and papers for his alcohol, his back was to the kid for the first time since he'd walked into his house.  
  
Well, flat. Calling this a house would be too generous.  
  
"Well your name is Claude and you buy the cheapest whiskey, never clean-shaven, and apparently you have dreamy, lost eyes, just begging to be saved." Tony laughed and then with an impish grin shrugged.  
  
There was only one person who described his eyes as 'dreamy and lost', Claude thinks sheepishly and sure enough --  
  
"Desiree the bartender gave me your name. And spying on my father and his...friends, gave me your reputation. I also saw that mark on your arm," Tony gestured to the visible blank ink that seemed to move under his skin, "did more research. And this apartment building is on top of 'sacred hunter land' apparently! That's pretty cool! There's a few other sites like that across Paris."  
  
Still thinking he would have to call Desiree and remind her that hunters generally speaking would have preferred not to be found, Claude can't help but grin. He turns back clutching the very bottle of whiskey, cheap and dry, which Tony had mentioned.   
  
Of course, he probably shouldn't be drinking in front of.. ...how old was this kid anyway?   
  
"Desiree needs to learn to keep her mouth shut," Claude chuckled, who generally speaking preferred it open and o-shaped. He sits with the glass and ice bucket pinched between forefinger and thumb, shaking head to himself.   
  
The fact he recognized the mark though, that...well, naturally Remington would have books on it where most didn't. Struck by the thought the kid may know more than he did about it, he tilts his head. Then he pours the whiskey.   
  
"All right, all right, so you researched me, but..." still, Claude thinks, that did not explain why Tony was convinced he was worth being a tutor. Looking up over the bottle, he offers a tad bit quieter, "you seem like a good kid, Tony. I don't understand why..."   
  
His father would hate him? But Claude couldn't say that. Besides, didn't he have his answer with the fact that Remington D'Grey despised everything good and decent in the world? Not that Claude was biased, or anything.   
  
Tongue between his lips, he finally said, "Why you would need my help as opposed to...anyone elses. It seems to me you would have connections to a dozen people more...familiar and qualified with the problem you're describing. And your brother? What's...he, doing to try and control it?"   
  
Feeling awkward again, Tony sighed as he rubbed the back of his neck. Truthfully, he hadn't even considered anyone else before this. It was easier to trust Claude, a complete stranger, than trust anyone else he did know. He especially wasn't going to his father with this. Tony knew what he would say, and it wouldn't be anything positive. Remington would probably want him to kill someone to prove himself strong or some fucked up shit like that.  
  
"I...I don't know," he admitted with some shame, "asking my father for help I expect. We haven't actually talked much about it." He looked at the ground as he grumbled something that resembled 'I end up yelling at him'.  
  
"And, well I don't...have anyone else."   
  
Claude wants to focus on the fact that Tony was flat out telling him his brother relied on the psychotic "public enemy number one" mafioso vampire capo for restraint. He wants to focus on the fact that was a recipie for absolute disaster, one that like as not would lead to their confrontation one day. He even wants to focus on the fact that choosing to be asking someone who blatantly admits they wouldn't mind killing your father (and Claude wouldn't) was not a stellar example of sanity or logic. Even if this was the right thing (and Claude believed that) to want, what would make a teen think their father hated him? But could Claude comfortably tell him he was wrong? How could he justify telling Tony this wasn't his business (it's not), or that he was "sure" his father didn't want him dead (he's not), that they should be "open and honest" (with a vampire?), that he should go home and reconcile with brother and father (Remington fucking D'Grey?) How could he justify sending a kid home to that?   
  
He wants to focus on any one of these things as reasons this was tricky (impossible) even if necessary, because his heart had stopped at the simple thought that Tony would admit he didn't have anywhere else to go.   
  
Yeah, no shit I'd be the last resort, Claude thinks as he downs a hot swallow. He relishes the burn. Face crumpled with probably those "dreamy lost eyes", he nods once at Tony to indicate he both understands, and knows why Tony was embarrassed to say that.  
  
"How old are you, kid?" Claude asked, over refilling his glass, nudging a plastic bag out from under his coffee table to hand him to throw away his tissues.   
  
Tony looked at Claude oddly, wondering if Claude was actively looking for excuses to get out of it, even though he had agreed to it. Maybe Tony had guilted him into it and the man had come to his senses quicker than usual. He wasn't going to get out of this just because Tony was underage. How many life altering events would he have to experience before he was an adult?  
  
"Eighteen," he answered in the same way he did when he, Leo, and a few other friends (idiots most of them but they were good fun) snuck into bars.  
  
"I have an I.D.," he said, reaching for his wallet, "if you need the proof. I just look young for my age, I'm like McLovin'."   
  
Claude snorts.   
  
"And are you an Irish R&B singer then too?" Claude asked. He does another swig, this one only slightly smaller. Waving off, he stalls his hand as he adds, "Yeah actually, let me see it."  
  
"I could be," he answered defensively, stupidly really. It took him longer than usual to realize that Claude understood the reference and added to it again! Taking the ID out of his pocket he gave it to Claude to inspect, his face smug already.  
  
He waits until he's looking at it and nodding to say, brightly, "Yeah, this almost looks real. Actually," Claude smirks again, "It probably is, isn't it? I wouldn't be surprised if the vehicle authority is on payroll."  
  
"I got this all by myself, thank you very much!" He took the ID back, knowing it was strictly true it was a friend of a friend who made school IDs not state IDs but whatever! The point was it wasn't his father or his influence who had gotten him it.  
  
License flicking between middle and ring finger with a snap, he offered it back to Tony and said easier, "You look twelve, McLovin. I'm not busting you, hell you could have a sip of this," he gestures with his chin at the glass, "right now, I just want to know so I'm aware exactly how many laws I'm breaking."  
  
Actually he wanted to know how old he was to already be worrying about whether or not he was killing someone. Yet that he wouldn't embarrass Tony with aloud. He remembered being eighteen. Claude wasn't -that- old, a'ight? Obi-wan or not.   
  
"I like to keep score, see."  
  
"I'm fourteen, check yourself," Tony narrowed his eyes, annoyed. He only acted twelve sometimes, he didn't look it!  
  
Fourteen. Claude whistled, low. Then he flicked his eyes down. Fourteen, and his birthday cake was being poisoned and his brother killed people 'to protect him'. Honestly, he was filled with a wealth of sympathy and...strangely pride. It took a strength of character few possessed to respond to that with wanting -not- to kill people, in Claude's opinion anyways.  
  
Well, strength and utter desperation. It was both.  
  
Tony then looked at the whiskey and then back to Claude, feeling like this was a trick too. What if the guy had poisoned it or laced it with something? After all, Tony was supposed to be like an abomination. Claude killed abominations.  
  
"So when we can we start?" He asked instead, shifting the conversation a little.  
  
As Tony shifts in his seat and doesn't drink it, Claude chuckles and leans over to take another swig himself. When he was fourteen, he'd have taken any free liquor he could get. (Actually, that was true still, he bought it cheap so he could drink it for a long time). Hiss-gasping through clenched teeth, Claude tries to think on that. When could they? What was starting even going to look like?   
  
"How are you going to get away?" Claude asked, cautiously. "You can join me on my runs in the morning to start, but I don't ever take the same trail..."  
  
It was too easy to be tracked down, that way. Although clearly some things needed to change if a fourteen year old could find him.   
  
"How am I -not- going to get away? I've got a thousand and one plans for getting out of my house, starting with Plan A and ending with Plan 'You're Fucked Now'." Hopefully it won't get to that though. There was a reason his last plan was called 'you're fucked now.'  He nodded, to show he was game with running in the morning.  
  
Claude smirked.  
  
"Right. So you can get out, fourteen, then, and the ID looks solid however you got it." There was a pause as Claude adds with some contrition, "Your father doesn't give you much, or you refuse to take it? Which is it?"   
  
"I refuse," Tony replied, "asking him for things means admitting he's right and he's won." Tony didn't know -why- that was, only that it was true.  
  
"We're gonna need burner phones! So we won't be tracked. And a place to train, a la secret dojo style- do you have one?"  
  
Claude laughs, shaking his head, now thinking yeah, he did like this kid. Especially the remark that he wouldn't let his father win. That and the burner phone and dojos, "Yeah, and I have a Batmobile too, though it's in the shop right now."  
  
"Haha," Tony rolled his eyes and tried not to sound embarrassed. Thankfully his face was still a mess from the previous crying so hopefully he didn't go too red. How cool would it be though?  
  
Well. He did have a gym he went to, obviously, and a spot in the countryside he'd trained himself with some more of those 'secret hunter grounds' that Tony had mentioned before. Yet he just took another swig, than put the drink back down in front of Tony. He was curious if Tony was refraining from drinking out of fear. It would make a certain amount of sense. At least, if he was in danger of being addicted to the one thing, maybe he was in danger of all?  
  
Tony eyes the drink again as it's set in front of him, brows furrowing. This felt like a trick. If he didn't drink it, would Claude not train him? But if he did, was there something in the drink? Was that the first lesson? Don't trust strangers bearing drinks?   
  
Tony picked up the drink and sniffed it.   
  
"Seriously I have a gym I go to, yeah. Bernina will let me in after hours sometimes, I could let you know when...but you're going to have to do things on your own too, all the time. You're never -not- in training, a'ight? That means your diet, your sleep schedule, a brief warm up before you shower in the morning."  
  
"And now my watch begins," Tony murmured, realizing how much work that sounded like. Well, at least he wasn't doing anything important like going to those private tutors.   
  
"Does the diet include liquor then?" Tony sniffed the whiskey again and then took a sip before his face contorted into a wince and he coughed. That was horrid.   
  
The sniffing bemused Claude more than it probably should. He'd been wrong: Tony wasn't worried here about addiction, he thought he might poison him. Strange! He was asking him for help with his hybrid state and yet thought he might poison him?   
So he waits until Tony takes a sip, and tries not to laugh too hard as the kid coughs. That would just embarrass the poor bloke. Leaning and patting his upper back to insure he didn't choke, Claude leans back and shrugs a shoulder.   
  
"It probably shouldn't as much as I do," Claude admits, "but it sure help takes the edge off for me. And tonight was...hell, and victory, and a reminder of how much further there still is to go. This is before your trespassing, that is."   
  
"Well, glad to know I'm not the -only- thing turning you to the drink," Tony commented to hide a brief flash of guilt for bringing Claude into the middle of all of this. The guy would be better off without Tony in his life. And that was saying a lot, seeing as how he was hunting down and killing vampires. Vampires that were close to Remington and his friends to begin with! That was a one way ticket to an early grave. Tony tried not to wince.  
  
"Not the only thing." Claude agreed, smirking up.  
  
Claude paused now, capping the whiskey and laying back in the couch, sore and still on edge. Now it was more with concern than anything else, though.   
  
"What did you mean, that your birthday...might have been a test?" The question was quiet, but he needed to understand these things. Though when he looks at Tony's face he is quick to add, "I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, it...I'm sorry, never mind, you don't have to talk about that."  
  
"It's okay," Tony said after rubbing a throat hot with the whiskey, even though it really wasn't in the slightest. With a heavy sigh, he wrinkled his nose as he thought it through a little better before he explained his messed up logic.  
  
"With father, everything's a test. Him giving me a puppy was a test, a two year long test. He wanted me to train him into a cold hard killing machine and attack on command. And well he was a Doberman, it's kind of their nature but I taught him to dance instead. I softened him up." Tony shrugged as he repeated his father's words back to Claude.  
  
"And I've been failing since I moved in with him when I was nine. So I just thought...well, who else would want to kill me? He has a lot of enemies, present company included, but none know about me. It just doesn't make sense. If they really wanted to kill me, good and done, why not just shoot me in the street after school? Instead there was just enough time for someone to intervene. I mean, maybe they hoped it would seem like I choked to death. It does seem like something my father would expect of me."  
  
Closing his mouth forcibly, Claude flicks his gaze to the floor, amazed and disgusted by how normal it seemed to Tony. How could he tell him, he shouldn't be shrugging off a murder attempt as something reasonable? That it wasn't something to push under the bed and accept?   
  
Well, maybe he just said it.   
  
"That's fucked." Claude said. He lifts a hand to wrap his mouth up to stop him saying anything else. He shouldn't...scare him more, God. If he'd learned not to be scared for this...how could Claude hurt him more and make him scared of it again?   
  
Yeah, it didn't take a genius to know that the way Tony and Olivier lived wasn't normal. Their father was a vampire for god's sake (maybe satan's sake rather), and that was without adding the fact that he was also the county's most dangerous criminal and evil mastermind. Also, he was really obscenely rich.   
  
It was nice to hear someone say how messed up it was though. Most would have Tony think that he was lucky and blessed to have the benefit of Remington D'Grey's tutelage. Even Oli had been explaining and defending their father to him since he moved to Paris.  
  
"You moved in at nine?" He asks, trying to find something, anything, that wasn't horrible to ask about in that explanation. He already felt as if he were prying where he should never go. Yet he was asked -- begged, to include Tony in his life, as if the intrusion hadn't done so already.   
  
"Yeah," Tony nodded, "I lived with my mom in Roma until I was nine. Then she left, wrote in a letter that I had to live with my father now. That it was the best for me. A whole lot of other bullshit." He huffed but then regretted it instantly. Tony didn't like talking bad about his mother. He never got a chance to even mention her anymore, except for when he and Leo figured out they were like third cousins or something like that.  
  
"Right..." Claude trailed off. He couldn't help but wonder if his mother was even still alive, then. Tony was right, it did sound like a load of bs, especially that it was written in a letter. People write the craziest things with a deranged mafioso at their back! Who would have thought?!  
  
That wasn't helping anyone, though.   
  
"And...," Claude says quietly, "I'm sorry about your puppy."  
  
Tony looked down at the floor and nodded, accepting the condolences because what else was there to do?   
  
Claude observed him staring down a few moments himself (let him have a moment of silence) before  he cleared his throat and got up to put the whiskey away. Searching his mind hard for lighter questions and each heavier than the last, at least putting the bottle back gave him something to do. Turning, he says, "You can call me just Claude, by the way, I don't...give a damn really."  
  
"Truthfully, I don't really know your last name so," Tony admitted with a little grin. He had just been referring to him as Claude in his head, but he hadn't said anything aloud, precisely because he didn't know what to call him.   
  
"It's Kenobi," Claude said with a grin, before leaning back. Look at that! At least he didn't have to have all his secrets out there, then. Antonio, Laurent, D'Grey might be safe to say his full name loud and not-that-proud, but Claude wasn't.   
  
Tony grinned wider and restrained a laugh. Old man Kenobi it was.   
  
At least that was lighter then? Probably? He wasn't requiring the kid bow and scrape and learn everyone's proper titles and courtesies? Claude slips his hand into his back pocket.   
  
"And I'll get you a key to the place in case you come by when I'm not here. Don't loiter. It might as be a red neon sign saying you're up to something. Hunter's ground or not, I don't doubt there's ears inside the building and eyes on it. This city is...crawling with it, as I'm sure you know."  
  
Tony nodded, trying not to show excitement over something as simple as a key. It was just a key for emergencies so that he wouldn't hover around the place and give away the fact that something funny was going on.  
  
"So....exactly, burner phones." Tony nodded.   
  
Claude chuckles and shakes his head, going to the secretary desk and rolling up the old wood top. Mismatched grains of pine fell free, a few new splinters every time he opened it, but Claude had owned the desk for nearly twenty years, it wasn't going to break. After brushing off the edge, he opened a little drawer and pulled a mini-device out, turning it on and putting his number into it, before turning and tossing it to the kid.   
  
"Just keep that on you. Attach it to your phone, just through the USB port, turn it on and it'll become a one way connection, nigh untraceable. Like an airplane mode too, it will turn off data and wifi. Just your signal will be left, and only to text or call me. Turn it back off and you're back to normal. It's just a bit of encryption, that's all. But a lot cheaper than a whole new phone."  
  
He wasn't going to be able to buy a new phone at a hat drop, let alone two.   
  
"Cool!" Tony couldn't restrain his excitement over that piece of technology. He scooted to the edge of the couch and held his hand out for the thing. It was like a spy film! Only with more vampires and less Scarlett Johansson.   
  
"I could have bought the phones you know, but this is definitely a lot more awesome." Tony looked at it in small awe, inspecting it. He supposed this was a easier to hide and potentially explain than a whole new phone. It even looked like a toy, only a lot more durable. Nevertheless, he wasn't going to push his luck by trying to find out how durable it really was.  
  
"A lot more awesome," Claude agrees with bemusement. Only a kid would use those words to justify switching a plan up, but they were harder to track too. And something told Claude his brother would have found that extra phone somewhere. If their father was trying to kill him, Olivier sounded as though he were the reason he wasn't succeeding. Killing for his brother, even accidentally, could only be preceded by the kid watching his brother like a hawk.   
  
"Thanks, Claude, " Tony looked up at the man, "not just for the....phone scrambler thingy. But, you know..."   
  
Claude swallows, hard. But he does press his lips together into some semblance of a smile before he nods.   
  
"You thank me now," Claude said, "but you'll be hating me by the end of the week."  
  
"I get this, this is the part where you assert you're not my friend, you're my enemy as the enemy is the best teacher, a la Mazer Rackham style." Tony would probably get a little angry and annoyed by that quickly, yeah.  
  
"Or maybe a la Miyagi, you're gonna have me doing pointless shit for absolutely no apparent reason and offer no explanation until I realize you've been training me all along." Tony considered that, but realized it would probably annoy him more.   
  
And like as not, Tony would decide maybe he didn't want to work out with him after all. It was one thing to track a person down, an entirely different thing to work out every day, suicide runs and sparring, beating the hell out of each other.   
  
"I can teach you to fight," Claude nods, "but I can't promise you won't hate me for it."  
  
"I'm not waxing your car," Tony said definitively, "other than that bring it on. The Kristen Dunst Bring It On, not the Hayden Pannitiere one."  
  
Claude lifts the corner of his mouth, definitely deciding that of the two of them, he was probably a lot more likely to be Miyagi than Mazar, but shrugs a shoulder to retort with indignation instead.   
  
"You realize all of these guys are a good twenty years older than me at least?" Claude objects, shutting the secretary desk again and going to finally turn another light on in the room. Drink nearly gone, he decides to leave it (at least until Tony was gone).   
  
Tony shrugged, which was really just a mic way of saying that he didn't know how old Claude was but it didn't look like the age difference was 'a good twenty'. He tried unsuccessfully to keep a smirk in. Tony realized that he wouldn't get points for trying anymore (as if he ever had?).   
  
"Yeah, all right," the words were brusque as Tony shrugged off his indignation, telling him plain enough how old Tony thought he was. Wrinkling his nose up, he continued, "I'm not your enemy," Claude sits on the edge of the couch, unable to keep from saying, "I'm your father's enemy. So I'm not sure if that truly makes me your friend, either."   
  
Well, they might not be friends but that was okay, Tony didn't need a friend right now, he needed a trainer: someone who was going to keep him from becoming a half vampire monster. Even though, technically, he already was. And his father might be an enemy to the world but Tony wasn't eager to call him an enemy. He was seeing what it was like to have enemies, and he didn't fancy that.  
  
Claude claps his hands together and then says a little more sincerely, soft, "But you're welcome, kid. I'm sorry I scared you."   
  
Truth was, Tony had scared the hell out of him too.   
  
"I wasn't -that- scared," he said indignantly and then held out his hand, "but we have a deal then. No take-backsies."  
  
"Wouldn't dream of it," Claude said, who dreamed such dark dreams already and yet could imagine none quite so vile as  ever turning his back on the kid. 


End file.
